


Along for the Ride

by Sir Elliot (SirElliot)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Department of Mysteries, Do-Over, Expect a serious divergence from canon, Goblins, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Not Epilogue Compliant, Not a canon rehash, Politics, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Time Travel, Unspeakable Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirElliot/pseuds/Sir%20Elliot
Summary: A bitter and jaded Hermione Granger accidentally travels back in time twenty-one years to her first year of Hogwarts. Forget fixing the past, she just wants to make the world burn.Too bad she's not the only one who traveled in time...[Featuring: rage, revolution, and maybe even some romance.]
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 124
Kudos: 201





	1. Was Neville Always This Tiny?

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, everyone, to my new fic. Some bookkeeping before we being:
> 
> This fic will NOT feature any underage/adult relationships. Hermione is 32 in this, and sees her eleven-year-old body more as a disguise than her actual appearance. I won't judge anything anyone reads, but I personally am too old to write a relationship between an actual teenager and an adult. (When I was a teen, I would've been all over that, but now as an adult I would not be able to). I think most fics hand wave that issue away by writing the teenagers as adults or the adults as teenagers, but I decided to go a different route and make Hermione an actual adult, with an adult mindset and (sometimes) an adult body. 
> 
> The romance itself will not be the focus of this fic. In the past, I've written fics that sort of danced around romance without ever actually having any. This time I'm going to make it more of a focus, but it still won't be the main focus. 
> 
> In terms of canon, that will quickly be flying out the window. Assume that everything happened as it did in the books up to (and but not including) the epilogue. However, things will start to diverge from canon pretty quickly. You may see the canon timeline try to re-establish itself from time to time, but it will quickly get slapped down. I will also not be quoting anything from canon, in fact I will not even use the books. (I, ah, don't actually own them. I'll be using HP lexicon to keep things straight). 
> 
> Finally, a quick warning about Hermione. Here she is jaded and bitter, just coming off of a terrible job and a bad marriage. In no way am I saying that this is what "should" have happened or making any value judgement on the HG/RW ship. What's happening here is an AU take on what could have happened if their relationship had not gone as we see in the epilogue. In this universe, they are too incompatible to have a good relationship. It may seem that I'm being hard on Ron, but I promise this is not going to turn into a Ron-bashing fest (not that there's anything wrong with liking that). 
> 
> If all that is acceptable to you, then I hope you will read and enjoy! I expect updates to come once every one to two weeks.

Neville Longbottom entered the compartment, looking helplessly lost. “Have you seen a toad anywhere?” he asked, looking so tiny and sad that Hermione immediately wanted to both hug him and punch him.

“He’s probably dead,” said the girl with thirty-two years of bitterness and rage shoved into an eleven-year-old body, and flicked her newspaper open again.

Hermione heard sniffling coming from the compartment’s entrance. “Oh very well,” she said, lowering the newspaper again. Her wand was in her hand with barely a thought. “ _Accio_ Trevor,” she said in a firm voice. A moment later, Neville was hit in the back of his head by his toad.

“Thank you!” Neville said, gratitude shining on his face. “Only… how did you know his name?”

“I read a lot,” Hermione said, and returned to her newspaper.

Neville, poor wonderful Neville, accepted this and turned awkwardly to leave the compartment.

Hermione sighed. “Why don’t you sit with me?” she offered reluctantly. He was just so helpless. She felt bad for the kid, and honestly pretty embarrassed given the cool and confident man he’d later turn into. It was like seeing someone’s embarrassing baby photo. Except… real.

“Thank you!” Neville said, face shining with happiness. “I’m Neville. Um. Neville Longbottom. Um. First year.”

“Hermione Granger,” she said politely. “Also a first year.” She could see him trying to place her name. “My parents are muggles,” she said helpfully.

“Oh!” Neville said, surprised. “You’re muggleborn?” Yep, there it was. She’d only been on the train an hour and already it’d started.

“Born and raised,” Hermione said, staring at him in a wordless challenge.

“Oh, that’s… great,” Neville said weakly, bright red with embarrassment. “I didn’t think… you just knew that spell…”

“Yep,” Hermione said, giving him nothing. She enjoyed watching him talk his way deeper and deeper into the hole he’d dug. Even if it was sweet-hearted Neville. It wasn’t his fault. Hermione knew exactly who was to blame.

The entire Wizarding World.

“That’s really impressive,” Neville finally settled on. “Do you think you’ll be in Ravenclaw?”

Hermione hesitated. “Probably Gryffindor,” she said. Too muggleborn for Slytherin, too bitter for Hufflepuff, too tired for Ravenclaw… Plus Gryffindor was where the action happened. She’d need to be in close proximity to Harry if she wanted to be kept up to date on events.

“Wow,” Neville said. “I’d love to be in Gryffindor.” He sighed wistfully.

“Then you’ll be in Gryffindor,” Hermione said, as if that settled the matter.

“No, I’m not— I’m not brave like that,” Neville said. His downtrodden expression wheedled its way into Hermione’s heart.

She felt bad for the kid, she really did. For the first time, the enormity of what had happened hit her. She would have to live the next _twenty-one_ years of her life all over again.

Oh, who was she kidding? She had no patience for that. Her old life was dead.

“The hat doesn’t just look at who you are, it also looks at who you aspire to be,” Hermione said wisely. Maybe she could help Neville out more this time around.

“The hat?” Neville asked, confused.

Oh fuck. That’s right, people didn’t actually tell their kids how the sorting worked ahead of time. Holy shit, Hermione had forgotten completely what it was like to be an eleven-year-old enchanted with the magic and mystery of Hogwarts. “I’ve said too much,” she said, and pulled her newspaper back in front of her face.

She ignored Neville’s lonely sigh and instead focused on reading the paper. She also ignored the compartment door opening.

She had a much harder time of ignoring the reedy voice of Draco Malfoy saying “Ugh, Longbottom. Have you seen Harry Potter anywhere?”

“N-n-no,” Neville stuttered out. Neville had known Malfoy from before Hogwarts? “Sorry, Malfoy.”

Hermione peered over her paper at them.

“Is that the Financial Times?” Malfoy asked her. “My father reads that.” He looked reluctantly impressed. Amazing how little it took. There was no reason to think she understood what she was reading, after all. But Hermione should have known Lucius Malfoy would be a weak point of Draco’s, perhaps even more than it was a strength.

Hermione couldn’t resist messing with him. She scoffed. “The Financial Times is a Muggle publication,” she said, voice dripping with scorn. “This is the Financial Times Wizarding Report, the magical and thus far superior version of that paper.” She eyed him critically. “You should make sure to get it right in the future. You don’t want anyone thinking you’re a mudblood, after all.”

“I- As if anyone would,” Malfoy huffed, and then quickly left the compartment.

Neville was staring at her with wide eyes. “I thought— you said— You’re not supposed to say that word!“

Hermione was way too old for this. She gave Neville a weak smile. “Sorry. I ran into him in the alley and he was going on and on about how inferior muggles are. I just can’t stand him, so I wanted to mess with him a little.”

Neville bought it. The poor kid was like an open book printed in that special huge font for old people. “He can be pretty rude sometimes,” he sighed.

“How do you know him?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Er- his dad and my gran are both on the Board of Governors,” he admitted sheepishly. “We would both get dragged to meetings sometimes. Please don’t tell anyone. It’s so embarrassing.”

Hermione hadn’t known that, either. “What’s so embarrassing about it?” Neville’s Gran, the severe old lady who wore a bird on her head was on Hogwarts’ Board of Governors? Actually that made perfect sense. The world was run by the wealthy, after all.

“I- I don’t know,” Neville said, looking uncomfortable with her questioning. “I guess I just don’t want people to think I’m the same kind of person as Draco.”

That was a good enough reason for her. “Don’t worry,” Hermione said. “I promise you no one will think that.”

Funny, Neville didn’t seem reassured.

* * *

Hermione stood patiently in line with the other students, listening to Professor McGonagall give her usual spiel. She hadn’t been to Hogwarts in years. It was truly magical to be back. Everything was a lot bigger than she remembered. (Or she was a lot smaller. She ignored that thought.)

She ignored Harry’s spat with Draco. No need to interfere there. Being obsessed with Draco Malfoy was Harry’s only hobby in school besides Quidditch. It would be a shame to take that away from him.

The ceiling was as beautiful as she remembered.

“Is that real?” someone whispered excitedly.

“It’s enchanted, you dolt,” she responded automatically. “Oh, um, I’m sorry,” she added awkwardly when Hannah looked like she was going to burst into tears.

Hufflepuffs, honestly.

“But where’s the troll?” someone else said, and for a moment Hermione was confused. Was that already? No, that was definitely on Halloween.

And then the Sorting started, and Hermione contented herself with remembering the names of the classmates she’d forgotten about after graduation. Wow, there were so many. She’d gotten to know Susan pretty well, actually, since they’d both worked in the Ministry (different departments), but Justin had really disappeared off the grid, hadn’t he. Or had he died?

“Granger, Hermione,” Professor McGonagall called out.

Hermione obediently made her way up to the hat, hoping her rudimentary Occlumency was enough to keep her secret reasonably safe. Not that it mattered too much. She’d have to tell Professor Dumbledore eventually.

“Ah, a time-traveller,” the Sorting Hat whispered in her head. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while.” So much for Occlumency then.

 _But you’ve seen them before?_ Hermione thought back.

“One or two, over the years. Although I’ve never met one who didn’t know how they did it.”

 _I’m pretty sure I know how_ , Hermione thought darkly. _It was Jackson’s fucking experiment._ The details, however, were lost to her. She had no memory of what exactly had happened to send her back in time. She suspected she’d lost only a day, but she genuinely couldn’t be sure. Technically, it could’ve been years. But Jackson had been working on a highly volatile experiment in the Time Room, and Hermione had been placed on it as well. Because, and she quoted, “You muggleborns need to stick together! After all, no one else is stupid enough to risk working with you!” Cue laughter from all her colleagues. Except maybe they’d been right, because trying to get equipment purchases approved turned out to be almost impossible for them. Their funding was practically zero, and hadn’t they both agreed that without the expensive safety measures the experiment was too volatile to safely be worked on? The sheer injustice and short-sightedness of it made her blood boil. An experiment going wrong would fucking affect everyone, not just them! Her idiot superiors were putting the entire building at risk, just because they couldn’t see past their own fucking noses.

But then again, it seemed that the only risk had been to her. Hermione had already checked — Jackson hadn’t traveled in time, nor had any of her coworkers.

“I’m afraid I can’t see whatever it is that you’re thinking about.”

 _DoM’s privacy spells, sorry. We’re not allowed to share the details of anything classified Hippogriff or higher, and all ongoing experiments are automatically classified at least Nundu._ The DoM classification system had between seven and eleven levels, depending on who you asked. She was cleared for all but the highest level, Dragon, which was only available to the head of the department and the Minister.

“While I find any details of the Department of Mysteries fascinating, I’m afraid I must sort you at some point. Or re-sort you, as the case may be.”

 _How does that work?_ Would she just get sorted into Gryffindor again automatically? She liked to think she was more complicated than the average eleven-year-old.

“As you correctly surmised earlier, I do not merely look at who a student is, but also who they hope to become. So who do you, Hermione Granger, want to be when you grow up?”

Hermione knew the answer immediately. _I want to be more than just another muggleborn, just another woman trying to do men’s work._ That was something else she’d heard so many times. It wasn’t enough to be a muggleborn, she had to go and be a woman as well. There was a law that said that DoM employees weren’t allowed to work on experimental magic while menstruating because their magic was “too volatile” to be “trusted.” Yet people were allowed to work while fucking drunk out of their minds. There was no evidence anywhere that menstruation affected magic. Literally none.

And DoM had actually beenbetter than the private research group she’d worked for. At least while working for the Ministry she couldn’t be fired because of her blood status.

“Ambitious, then?” the Hat asked her. _I can’t handle being in Slytherin for seven years,_ Hermione replied with a grimace. _I hate almost all of them._

“Perhaps not a good fit for you. Shall I do the cliche thing and Sort you into Gryffindor?”

 _Not Ravenclaw?_ Hermione asked. That’s where the Hat had wanted to put her the first time.

“Ravenclaw is for those who value learning solely for the pursuit of knowledge. I believe your goals have long since shifted to bringing society to its knees.”

 _Hey, not exactly,_ Hermione defended herself. _It’s more like I want to see the system burned down and then rebuilt into something that isn’t a pile of shit moulded into the shape of a cake._

“Hmm. Better be… GRYFFINDOR,” the Hat proclaimed, and that was that. Her (second) future had been decided.

Professor McGonagall looked quite pleased as Hermione handed her the Hat back.

Hermione took her seat at the table across from Percy, who gave her a polite nod, and then her attention finally drifted over to the staff table.

Her professors looked so much younger than she remembered, and so much less battle-scarred as well. The only exception was Professor Quirrell, who was—

Not wearing a turban.

What. The. Fuck.

* * *

Hermione barely paid any attention to the rest of the Sorting, too distracted trying to figure out what this meant. She knew the theft from Gringotts had been unsuccessful. She’d arrived in August, after the attempted theft, but she’d gone back through the newspapers to verify that everything she (vaguely) remembered was the same. The papers were clear (in their own way) that the stone hadn’t been stolen. Surely they would’ve had to report it if it had?

So why wasn’t Quirrell being punished by hosting Voldemort on the back of his head? How had she managed to change that? True, there’d been a few extra visits to Diagon Alley this time around, to say nothing of her clandestine trips to spy on her former/future colleagues… And of course there were the investments she’d made, because she wasn’t an idiot and she was hardly going to let an opportunity like that go to waste. But surely nothing that had managed to change the future so drastically that Voldemort hadn’t come to Hogwarts?

She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“—about you?” Ron was asking her, his tone polite even as he shoved potatoes in his face. It was hard to look at him. She had to keep reminding herself that he was a different person now. He wasn’t her husband. And he was never fucking going to be, if she had any say about it.

“Sorry, what was the question? I was distracted,” Hermione said. That’s right, she hadn’t gone up and down the train alienating all of her future classmates this time around. The only person she’d met was Neville. And Malfoy, technically.

“Hermione, right? What’s your family?” What an adorably tactless question.

“My parents are muggles, but I have a close cousin who’s a witch,” she lied. “So I’ve known about all this for a while.” There, that would explain away her knowledge of the Wizarding World. She was bound to slip up trying to hide it, and she truthfully didn’t feel like bothering.

“I wish I had a magical cousin,” Harry said wistfully.

“Do you have non-magical cousins?” Hermione asked politely. Baby Harry was so cute. And really skinny. God, how had she forgotten how thin he used to be? His relatives had a lot to answer for.

“My mum’s family,” he said, face turning red.

“Your cousin was telling muggles about magic?” Ron asked. Was it just her, or was his tone disapproving? What a fucking pureblood.

“Obviously she knew I wasn’t a muggle,” Hermione said frostily. “She noticed my accidental magic and talked to me and my parents.” She was immediately pissed, in the way that only Ron knew how to do. Well, Ron and her coworkers. At least her coworkers didn’t rile her up on purpose. At least her coworkers didn’t keep a mental list of all of her triggers and bring them up whenever they managed to stop fighting for a fucking evening. At least her coworkers weren’t idiots who would rather sit around all weekend listening to Quidditch matches than do anything that might, god forbid, expand their minds or teach them something new. What was the point of listening to a Quidditch match, if you couldn’t even see any of the fucking action?

They had not had a happy marriage.

“Oh,” Ron said stupidly.

Harry seemed put off by her rudeness to Ron, and was now talking to Sir Nicholas the resident horrifying ghost. She ignored them. Ghosts were only echoes of a person, caused by a strong magical presence that didn’t fade after death. They were incapable of changing like people were, doomed instead to always repeat their same old patterns, their same old grievances.

And then Ron put a rat on the table.

Hermione stared at it. She’d completely forgotten about Peter Pettigrew. Of course she had, she hadn’t thought about any of the so-called “Marauders” in over fifteen years. But maybe she should have. Sirius’ imprisonment should’ve been a warning sign for her, an indication that there was something rotten within the Ministry. How else could an innocent man get locked away for life without even a trial? Of course, Sirius was also a pureblood and a member of an Ancient and Noble house… How would the likes of Lucius Malfoy responded to being locked away like that? Not well, she should think.

Perhaps there was an opportunity here. But first, she would need to safely contain Pettigrew and think about the best way to approach this. Her mind drifted to Rita Skeeter, yet another unregistered Animagus currently out there causing trouble. As much as Hermione hated her, she couldn’t deny the advantages of being on the beetle’s good side. Yes. This could work out favourably for both of them.

Hermione glanced around to see who else had noticed the rat. Quite a few people, actually — and they were all giving Ron varying looks of disgust. She glanced up at the staff table. Professor Snape was giving them a particularly acute look of loathing, but that was nothing new for him. She avoided looking at Professor Quirrell. Professor Dumbledore was… Had he been drinking? She’d never seen his cheeks so rosy before. And there were multiple bottles of wine within reach. Strange that she’d so easily forget about her Headmaster’s drinking habits. Although unsurprising. After his death, most people had only remembered the man they wanted to remember.

The conversation around her had meandered to their classes.

“What classes are you looking forward to, Hermione?” Neville asked her shyly. Hermione felt bad for ignoring him all evening.

“Charms, I think,” she said. Transfiguration had been her favourite class in school, but after graduating she’d gotten her mastery in Experimental Charms with a focus on Non-Abelian Arithmetic Transformations. There was just something so satisfying about taking something that had once been mysterious and strange to her, and turning it into neat equations that could be manipulated to achieve whatever effects she wanted. Well, most of the time. Some of the time. When she was lucky, at least.

Oh Merlin. They’d be learning the levitation charm in class. Briefly she debated the merits of skipping ahead a few years, or just claiming to be some sort of prodigy and going for a mastery immediately. But she needed to stay here so she could keep a close eye on Harry. She owed him that much.

“What about you, Neville?” Hermione said.

Neville looked both pleased and anxious to be asked. Bless his soul. “Er— Herbology, I think,” he managed. “I used to hang out in the greenhouses a lot at home.”

“Wow, you had greenhouses?” Dean asked, looking excited by the prospect.

Neville immediately turned bright red. “Just— just a few small ones. My gran likes having fresh ingredients for her potions… Um… It’s cheaper than buying…”

“Cheaper if you can afford greenhouses,” Ron muttered, still deeply insecure about his family’s poverty. Actually, now that Hermione thought about it, she couldn’t put a finger on a time when that insecurity had gone away. Was that one of the reasons Ron was always complaining about her expensive books and research materials, why he was always so resistant to spending the evening out at a play or a nice dinner? She didn’t like this new understanding. It made her feel softer towards him, when she’d been trying so hard to keep a good well of bitterness going.

Neville looked down at his plate, clearly ashamed of himself.

There it was, the bitterness was back. “Greenhouses are just enclosed gardens,” she told Ron with a haughty sniff. “And gardens are hardly expensive at all.” She knew very well that his mother gardened. She also knew she was making things worse, but she couldn’t help herself. Getting under Ron’s skin was second nature to her now.

Ron gave her a nasty look. She was used to it, but it still stung. “Do you garden a lot?” he asked mockingly. Even Harry looked surprised by the anger in his voice.

“No, plants hate me,” Hermione said with a sigh, annoyed at herself for provoking another spat. “I kill basically everything I touch.” Sort of true. She just wasn’t very interested in practical magic. Anything that got her hands dirty, basically. She’d never been particularly fond of potions, either, but perhaps that had been in part due to the instructor.

“Maybe we could work together in class,” Neville offered timidly, as if certain she would say no.

Instead she smiled at him. “That sounds great!” Oh god, first year classes. But when she glanced over at Harry and saw how shyly he was eating his food, she knew she’d have to stick around.

* * *

Classes were just as tedious as Hermione had predicted. They were still all theoretical for the moment, so she sat in the back of the class staying quiet and seemingly taking studious notes. Actually she was working on personal projects, including working on some papers that she’d had in progress when she’d disappeared. She was hoping she could submit them under a pseudonym, and maybe even make a name for herself (or an alternate identity) as a researcher. She’d have to stick to stuff that wasn’t DoM classified, but she had some stuff in the backlog that would be a good fit.

Then in Transfiguration, they were asked to transform their matches into needles. Hermione waited what felt like an appropriate length of time and then transfigured her match. Professor Mcgonagall immediately descended on her, giving her embarrassingly effusive praise. Ron shot her a nasty look, and Harry seemed discouraged by her success.

“My cousin has a mastery,” Hermione explained awkwardly. She’d forgotten that most students only managed it partway in their first class.

“I hope you haven’t been practicing at home,” Professor McGonagall said, immediately turning stern.

“Oh no, definitely not, she just likes talking about the theory,” Hermione said quickly.

Professor McGonagall nodded, but her classmates only a little appeased by this explanation. She wasn’t even raising her hand in class anymore! Why did they still hate her?

Well, Neville didn’t, at least. Although he was looking at his match with a hopeless expression. Hermione sighed, and resigned herself to spending her Hogwarts years helping him.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was different than she remembered, in that Professor Quirrell didn’t smell horrendous and stutter all the time, but that only marginally improved the class. He spent the time going over the syllabus and doing the introduction, and that seemed to line up about with what she remembered. Her classmates seemed to like it well enough, but Hermione barely paid attention, instead too nervous about how she might’ve fucked up the timeline.

Her first potions class, however, was even stranger.

Professor Snape did the roll, as all their professors had done, although he alone gave no reaction at Harry’s name. Poor Harry looked relieved at that. Professor Flitwick had literally fallen off his chair, much to Harry’s embarrassment.

Then their professor started off the class with a pop quiz, to which absolutely no one raised their hand.

Professor Snape looked over at her, but she merely stared back patiently.

For a second, she would’ve sworn he looked confused, but then he was turning to Neville and asking him to answer, and Neville was stuttering and just generally being the disaster he was. Again, Professor Snape looked back at her again as if to rebuke her for not helping, but she knew better than that. Instead, she waited until the worst was over and gave Neville a reassuring pat on his shoulder.

A few more questions later, with students called on at random, their spirits were effectively quashed. Even the Slytherins hadn’t fared better, and Malfoy had looked slightly constipated when it seemed for a moment that Professor Snape might call on him.

In was in that depressed state that the class began brewing, interspersed with their usual beginning-of-the-semester lecture on safety. Professor Snape had always liked to take a, ah, practical approach to teaching safety measures. By letting them fuck up on a simple potion and seeing the effects first hand.

The class was halfway over when Hermione suddenly realised what was bothering her.

Professor Snape hadn’t so much as _looked_ at Harry Potter. He hated Harry, that much had been painfully clear all throughout school. But hadn’t the harassment started immediately? Or had it taken a few lessons?

Yes, that must be it, Hermione reasoned uncertainly. It would’ve been strange for a professor to immediately start bullying a student, wouldn’t it? Surely it would take a bit for Professor Snape to realise that he wanted to bully Harry?

She felt distinctly uneasy at that explanation, but she really couldn’t remember what the first few months of Hogwarts had been like. To her, they’d passed in a blur of excitement and loneliness, and she could barely remember what had happened to herself, let alone what had happened to Harry and Ron before Halloween.

“Ah, I see Mister Longbottom has given us a wonderful example of the dangers of sheer idiocy in potion making,” Professor Snape said, appearing suddenly at their table.

Hermione sighed when she saw that Neville’s face had gone white with terror. Some things never changed.

Meanwhile, Neville’s boil cure and turned a sickly yellow, despite Hermione’s best efforts to steer him gently in the right direction.

“It doesn’t look dangerous,” Seamus said doubtfully, twisting in his seat to get a better look at the action.

“Five points from Gryffindor, Mister Finnegan, for blithering on about things you don’t understand,” Professor Snape said in satisfaction. “Can anyone tell me what Mister Longbottom did wrong here? Anyone? No? How about you, Miss Granger, since you seemed so intent on helping him during the lesson. Unable to stop yourself from showing off, were you?” He sent her his usual glare, the one that promised any rule breakers a lifetime of detention with Filch.

Hermione let his vitriol roll off her back. She’d had six years of lessons with the man, and had long ago stopped caring what he said. Instead, she glanced over at the potion, and gestured at the ladle. “May I, sir?” she asked.

Professor Snape looked surprised. “You may,” he said grudgingly. The rest of the class had abandoned their own potions in favour of watching the excitement. There would be many more ruined potions by the end of class.

Hermione stirred the potion once, then ladled some up and let it fall back into the cauldron. “The horned slugs were not stewed all the way through,” she said. “And the ginger root was diced too large.” She hesitated, unsure of what was something reasonable for a first year to know. In the end, Professor Snape was right. She couldn’t resist showing off. “Also the nettles he used were contaminated.”

“And how do you know that?” Professor Snape said, glaring at her suspiciously.

Time for Hermione to revert to form. “All these effects are described in _100 Common Potions Mistakes_ , which was listed as supplementary reading in our textbook,” she said primly. She’d re-read all her basic textbooks and supplementary reading over the summer to refresh her memory. It turned out they were a lot easier to understand when you’d had twelve years of magical schooling. They’d also been exceedingly boring, but she was an expert at forcing herself to read through boring material and retain what she’d read.

Professor Snape nodded reluctantly. “Very well,” he said, and moved on with only a sneer for Neville.

Hermione was surprised. She’d expected to get points removed for showing off. But then again, she’d hardly cultivated a reputation as an insufferable know-it-all this time around. Or at least she didn’t have a reputation for constantly raising her hand in classes.

Still, she was thoughtful for the rest of the day. There was something about that potions class that nagged at her, but she couldn’t think what it was. It was frustrating how little she remembered of Professor Snape’s behaviour during her first few months of school. It all sort of blurred together in her mind.

But Hermione soon put thoughts of it aside, because it was the weekend, and that meant she could work on her other projects without the added stress of first-year classes.

Finally, she could get some peace.

* * *

Both twenty one years after, and hours before, her first flying lesson, Hermione still didn’t like flying. Granted, she was much better at it than she’d been at eleven, but she vastly preferred to Apparate everywhere. It had been quite the point of contention between her and Ron, actually, that she’d never bothered to fly with him.

But he’d never bothered to read any of her favourite books, either, so she rather thought they were even in that regard.

Still, Hermione was much less anxious about flying class this time. While everyone at the breakfast table gossiped about it excitedly, Hermione was doing some reading for history. The texts were more illuminating now that she’d spent time in the Ministry. As a young girl, she’d always been confused by some of the actions the Ministry had taken. Didn’t they know they were angering the goblins? Didn’t they know their actions would lead to war?

Yes, and yes, and that was the point. Hermione understood that better now. The textbooks weren’t a chronicle of two equal factions undergoing disagreements, they were the chronicle of a government who had so suppressed its people that they had fought multiple civil wars and attempted rebellions. Eventually the goblins, who had cared more about freedom than the Ministry had about subjugating them, had successfully formed a small nation state of their own, presumably located in wizard space (goblin space?) deep underground. The Ministry recognised it as a sovereign nation, and even had ambassadors. Tensions, however, remained high. Each side felt that they’d been cheated, and that made diplomacy hard.

It was ridiculous. The goblins had wanted to disappear into their own state and operate as an independent entity, with the only contact being international trade. The Ministry had decided that if they couldn’t tax the goblins directly, they’d tack on ridiculous tariffs to discourage British citizens from doing business with them. The goblins, furious at this, had flooded the market with freshly mined gold, collapsing the value of the gold coins the Ministry used to use and causing a currency crisis. Wizarding Britain had fallen into a recession, at which point the goblins had opened up their own bank, offering loans in a stable currency that was fixed to the pound. People, having lost faith in their government, flocked to Gringotts, heedless of the additional power this gave the goblins.

The Ministry, however, was well aware of the risk, and were willing to go to extreme lengths to prevent another collapse. In exchange for security measures that limited what goblins were allowed to do with wizarding money, Gringotts became the official bank of the Ministry of Magic. If you got paid by the Ministry, you had to go through Gringotts. If you wanted a government-backed loan, you had to go through Gringotts. Hell, even if you wanted to simply invest in a business that received any money at all from the government (which almost all businesses did, either as loans or small business grants), you had to go through Gringotts.

There were no other banks in Wizarding Britain. What was the point? Gringotts would always get the majority of the business. The remainder simply wasn’t profitable enough, no matter how much people complained about goblins.

Hermione thought this was an untenable situation. The Ministry and the goblins had been teetering in this unstable equilibrium for decades, but all it would take was the slightest disruption to send the whole system crashing to the ground. The Ministry was very lucky that Voldemort had had too many wealthy supporters to be willing to tank the economy.

“Are you looking forward to flying?” Lavender asked Hermione politely, distracting her from her reading. They weren’t good friends, but Hermione hadn’t gone out of her way to alienate the other girls like she had the first time. So what if they liked hair and talking about crushes? Other girls with different interests from her were not the enemy. No, she knew exactly who the enemy was.

“I think so,” Hermione said, with a friendly smile that was only partially fake. “What about you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What if I get bugs in my mouth?” Lavender said worriedly.

“Once when I was flying I ate a whole butterfly!” Ron boasted. There were answering noises of disgust and awe up and down the table.

Neville looked particularly green. “What if I hit a bird and fall off and die?” The owl next to him dropping off a package gave him a reproachful look and flew away.

“Can that happen?” Harry asked Ron nervously.

“No, of course not!” Ron said. “Oh, well, I guess it has happened a few times… Birds during Quidditch games, I mean. No one’s died from it!”

“But there were injuries!” Seamus said excitedly. “One bloke almost lost an arm!”

“Oh no, I need my arms,” Neville moaned. He unwrapped his package and pulled out a Remembrall. Which immediately turned bright red.

Hermione looked at it in surprise. She’d forgotten all about that. Poor Neville had been bullied so much because of it that he’d stopped using it altogether after only a few weeks. Cautiously, Hermione looked around for Malfoy, but he was over at the Slytherin table being pestered by Parkinson. Probably for the best.

“Oh Neville, you’ve forgotten something,” Lavender said. “Do you remember what it is?”

“No,” Neville said miserably.

“Not very useful then, is it?” Ron said, and shoved some bacon in his face. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him, but was gratified to see Lavender doing so.

“I don’t know,” Neville said. “Maybe it’ll help me remember.” He shook the Remembrall hopefully.

Malfoy had finally untangled himself from Parkinson enough to come over and bother Neville.

“You have a Remembrall?” Malfoy said mockingly. “What, too stupid to know you can’t remember anything? Even I could’ve told you that!”

Neville shrank into his seat.

Hermione looked around for a teacher, but Professor McGonagall was already swooping down on them.

“Mister Malfoy, I believe the Slytherin table is on the other end of the hall,” she said coldly.

“I was just visiting,” Malfoy protested, but acquiesced when he saw her look. “Fine, whatever,” he huffed, walking back over to his table dragging his feet.

Professor McGonagall looked down at Neville, cowering in his seat, and sighed. “Buck up, Mister Longbottom,” she said, and gave him a last lingering look before she left.

“What a slimy git,” Ron muttered under his breath.

“He’s awful,” Lavender agreed. “He thinks that just because his family is super rich he can do whatever he wants.”

Neville somehow managed to shrink even farther into his seat.

Hermione glanced up at the head table. Professor McGonagall was telling Professor Dumbledore something, clearly upset. And Professor Dumbledore looked almost amused, shaking his head slightly with a small smile on his face.

Reluctantly, Hermione found herself looking at Professor Quirrell. He looked a lot better without the turban, truthfully. He had thick brown hair that balanced out his face nicely, and his skin looked much healthier than the waxy pale it’d been while he was possessed. He was engaged in conversation with Professor Burbage, and they were laughing about something together. Hermione didn’t like that at all.

Finally it was time for the flying lesson Hermione had been looking forward to. Not for the lesson itself, but because of the opportunity it presented. Ron had settled into the habit of bringing Scabbers with him everywhere he went, but he’d finally left him alone in the tower so that he didn’t drop him while flying. All Hermione had to do was slip away when…

“Argh!” Neville cried as he hit the ground with a sickening crunch. “Oh Merlin,” he groaned piteously.

Immediately everyone started to crowd around him.

“Back up, everyone,” Madam Hooch said sternly, then crouched down to look at Neville. “Just a broken wrist, it looks like. Up you get. I’ll take you up to the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomfrey will have you fixed in a heartbeat.” Her good cheer hadn’t been diminished by the first serious injury of the year.

“Madam Hooch?” Hermione said, stepping forward. “I can take him, Neville’s my friend.” She looked up at the instructor earnestly, her still baby-cute eleven-year-old face finally coming in handy. She was also appealing to a teacher’s desire to never leave a group of eleven-year-olds alone together without supervision.

“That’s sweet of you,” Madam Hooch said, and gingerly pulled Neville to his feet. “Do you know where it is?”

Hermione nodded. “I went there last week for a headache.”

“Off you go then,” Madam Hooch said, gently pushing Neville towards her. “Everyone else, back to your brooms, now!”

Hermione walked with Neville back to the castle.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Neville said shyly. “I feel so stupid.”

“Have you ever flown before?” She asked curiously.

Neville nodded. “Just a little. My grandmother made me learn but I was never any good at it. I just got so nervous that I’d mess up again that I— messed up again.”

His downcast expression was heart-breaking. “That’s okay, you’re allowed to mess up,” Hermione offered.

“But everyone laughed at me.”

“So what? They just like laughing. If they weren’t laughing at you they’d be laughing at someone else. I know it stinks that it’s you, but it doesn’t mean anything.” Hermione hesitated for a moment. “Kids can be very cruel sometimes, without even realising it.”

“And sometimes even with realising it,” Neville added darkly.

Hermione nodded, sad that Neville had already figured that out. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“I’m really glad you’re my friend, Hermione,” Neville said. Not shy this time, but defeated, as if he knew his only alternative was complete loneliness.

“Me too,” Hermione said, and felt horrible all over again for the behaviour of her younger self. Even when she’d been completely friendless, she’d preferred aching loneliness over being kind to Neville.

She dropped Neville off with Madam Pomfrey, who immediately got to work. True to form, she had him fixed up almost immediately, but then something gave her pause.

“Mister Longbottom, would it be alright if I gave you a checkup right now?” she asked. “Your grandmother gave me permission to act as your healer while you’re at school, but we can schedule another time if you’re busy.”

“Now is fine,” Neville said in confusion. “Um,” he turned to look at Hermione.

“I’ll see you later, alright?” Hermione said, pleased with the opportunity.

“Okay. Thanks again, Hermione!”

Hermione waved back at him as she left, already going over her plan. She’d taken some time over the weekend to spell a cage unbreakable, so that Pettigrew would be properly trapped in it. She quickly retrieved it from her dormitory, then cast a Disllusionment charm and De-scented charm on herself and snuck into the first-year boy’s dorm, not worrying about attracting notice with the floating cage. No one was around.

Scabbers was asleep on Ron’s bed, easily identifiable by the pile of messy clothes around it and the Chudley Cannons posters on the wall. Hermione crept over, casting a silent Stupefy on the rat so that he’d stay asleep. And then she bundled him into the cage.

She basked in the thrill of work well done. Peter Pettigrew was asleep, ready to be turned in in the most dramatic fashion she could think of.

And then the door opened. No one appeared, but then Hermione saw the slight shimmer of air that meant someone else was Disillusioned as well.

There was a moment of shocked pause, and then both of them shot Finite Incantatums at each other at the same time.

Hermione was clever, she knew to aim for the place where the person would be forced to dodge amid the clutter of the boy’s dorm. Except this careful deliberation had cost her the opportunity to dodge as well.

Both Disillusionments fell, and Hermione was left visible, holding the cage and staring at Professor Snape.


	2. Conversations with Professors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! This is coming much earlier than I expected, and I don't think I'll be keeping up this pace going forward. But I've been filled with new-fic energy and didn't see any point in waiting once I'd finished editing it. 
> 
> Some people expressed pretty strong opinions about how they expected the fic to go, or what they hoped happened, and I'm so amazed that people already feel so strongly about this fic. However, I suspect that some people will be disappointed. If at some point you think to yourself "Wow, I love this concept but I would've written it differently," then I highly recommend you do it! I would love to read it.

They stared at each other in a moment of shocked recognition.

“Miss Granger,” Professor Snape said, making the first move. “The Disillusionment Charm is a seventh-year spell.”

“Someone cast it for me,” Hermione said automatically.

“Someone who asked you to steal that rat?”

“I’m doing a favour for Ron,” Hermione said. She wasn’t surprised at his skeptical expression. What kind of favour involved sneaking into his dorm? “Why are you in the first-year boy’s dorm, professor?” She asked, going on the attack. He couldn’t have… had he? Or maybe he was the one possessed by Voldemort, instead of Quirrell? And somehow Voldemort knew that Scabbers was actually one of his Death Eaters. Even though he’d never known it the first time. Professor Snape certainly looked normal enough, but what did that mean?

“I am a professor, I have every right to inspect the dormitories,” Professor Snape said authoritatively.

“Not without the head of house, you don’t,” Hermione corrected easily. “It’s written in _Hogwarts, A History_.”

Professor Snape hesitated.

Hermione immediately pressed her advantage. “In fact, I think Professor McGonagall would like to know about this. I imagine she wouldn’t approve at all. Sir.”

She could see the change on Professor Snape’s face as he decided to drop all pretences at subtlety. “Give me the rat, girl,” he demanded, in a tone of voice that spoke of dire consequences for not following orders.

Hermione was immune. “I don’t think I will,” she said, holding the cage tighter.

Professor Snape immediately tried to summon it to him, but she threw up a shield automatically.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Why are you so interested in a harmless family pet?” Hermione said, fishing for information. Maybe he didn’t look possessed, but she wasn’t sure it was always possible to tell by eye. Of course, there were other ways to tell…

As soon as he opened his mouth to reply, she cast. He hadn’t been expecting it, but his wand was already raised and his instincts were too quick.

“The Possession Revealing Charm?” Professor Snape said, genuinely confused. Right, that was the official name for it. How could she have forgotten.

“Let me cast it on you,” Hermione said. She probably should’ve been subtler about it, but that wasn’t her strong suit. And he probably wasn’t actually possessed by Voldemort, right?

“That charm is not taught at Hogwarts.”

“I didn’t learn it at Hogwarts,” she countered, and then winced. That had been a little too revealing.

“We will each cast it on the other,” Professor Snape proposed. “One at a time. Out loud, no tricks.”

Hermione nodded. “ _Aparecium Mancupium_ ,” she incanted. Clean. He was not possessed.

Professor Snape immediately cast it on her, not giving her time to dodge even if she’d wanted to. She didn’t. She came back clean as well.

They both looked at each other.

“Let’s talk in your office,” Hermione suggested. She held up the cage. “I’ll even bring our friend. The cage is unbreakable.”

Professor Snape nodded, warily. “Five minutes,” he said, and Disillusioned himself again. She did the same.

She let him go first, then followed at a more sedate pace, thinking. He must have traveled in time as well. Or maybe he’d received information from the future some other way. Or she’d somehow changed enough that he’d figured it out immediately. Or could she have traveled to an alternate dimension where history was not as she thought it was? She hadn’t found any inconsistencies yet, but… well, there was Quirrell. And now Professor Snape. So two big inconsistencies. And who was to say there weren’t more, hidden out of her sight? Indeed, an alternate universe would explain everything quite neatly. And it made more sense to her than time travel, anyway. Otherwise wouldn’t the paradox have imploded the universe already? A CTC was impossible. How could you have a closed time-like curve if you never returned to the same point?

She entered his office without knocking, and closed the door behind her. She dropped the Disillusionment, unhid the cage, and cast every locking and privacy charm she could think of on the door.

“I have not seen that one before,” Professor Snape commented. He was sitting at his desk, hands steepled in front of him.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Hermione said, enjoying the way his eyes narrowed at her non-answer. “Professor,” she added with a touch of mockery.

“Miss Granger, why did you steal Mister Weasley’s rat?” Professor Snape asked, as if she were just another recalcitrant student misbehaving.

She dropped the cage on the desk. “Look, we both know that we both know that this is Peter Pettigrew. Can we just speak honestly for a moment?”

Professor Snape nodded. “Very well,” he allowed reluctantly.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Hermione asked.

“Whatever do you mean?” Professor Snape asked. She couldn’t tell if he was actually annoyed or pretending at annoyance for some cunning purpose. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that questioning him was like trying to wring gold from a goblin. _Blood from a stone,_ she corrected herself hastily in her mind, embarrassed that she’d picked up the prejudicial idiom.

“Before you traveled in time,” Hermione said, weary suddenly of it all. She desperately wanted to be right. She desperately wanted to not be alone in all this, even if it was Professor Snape, who was angry and bitter and a horrible professor. What other choice did she have? The thought of being able to share memories of the future was powerfully, painfully alluring.

He stayed silent for a long moment, and her heart sank. But then he said: “Dying.”

“In the Shrieking Shack,” Hermione said softly. He gave her a sharp look. “I remember. I was there.”

“Unfortunately,” he commented angrily. “And you?” he asked reluctantly, like he didn’t want to know the answer. She wasn’t surprised he didn’t want to dwell on his own experience. That had been a nasty death.

“Fighting with my husband,” she snorted. “I have no memory of the events surrounding my travel.”

Professor Snape’s composure finally dropped, and he looked baffled. “Your husband? How old were you?”

“Thirty-two,” Hermione said.

“The war goes on that long?” he asked, horrified.

“No, no. It ended a few hours after you died. Harry watched your memories and then killed him. Well, it’s more complicated than that. But it ended that night.”

Professor Snape considered this. “Then why did you travel back in time?”

“As I said, I don’t really remember, but I think it was an accident,” Hermione admitted. “I think it was probably an experiment gone wrong. Why did you travel back in time?”

“I have no idea.” He was clearly frustrated by this.

They considered each other for a moment, lost in thought. 

“What is your plan?” Professor Snape ground out, as if it pained him to ask and not command.

“Something’s gone wrong. Things are different already, and I don’t think I did anything to cause it. With Professor Quirrell, I mean. I need to figure out why. And hopefully how as well.”

Professor Snape nodded. “I had noticed. It was not my doing either, that I know of.”

“I thought maybe I— that we’re in an alternate dimension. I haven’t found any other evidence to support that, though. It’s hard to tell, precisely. I’ll need to do more research.”

“An alternate dimension?” Professor Snape asked, suddenly alarmed. “Is that possible?”

“It’s been theorised about, but never proven. Normally I would say it’s impossible, but your time travel seems impossible as well… You died a normal, physical death. There wasn’t even any high magic involved, let alone anything that could send someone back in time. It simply doesn’t make any sense.” Hermione was both frustrated and disturbed by this. If she weren’t sitting here, she would say it was all… “It could be a dream, or a simulation,” she proposed.

Professor Snape looked skeptical.

“I don’t know, it doesn’t seem crazier than both of us randomly time traveling like this. What are the odds?” She did some quick calculations in her head. “Astoundingly low.”

“Unless someone sent us back on purpose.”

“But from over a decade apart? And from different physical locations?”

“I don’t know,” Professor Snape said, angrily. “I am hardly an expert in such matters.”

“Nobody is,” Hermione said, tired. “None that I know of, at least.”

“We may not be the only ones.”

It took Hermione a moment to understand what he meant, then shook her head. “That’s incredibly unlikely. The power it would take to send one person back this far, let alone two…”

“I find it stunning that you would assume anything about how we traveled back, considering your complete lack of knowledge on the subject,” Professor Snape said testily. “You have already clearly stated your ignorance, how could you possibly be stupid enough to extend that ignorance to make assumptions as well?”

Hermione glowered back at him. “It’s completely crazy!” she said stubbornly, ignoring the trickle of uncertainty she felt with a practised ease. Yet she couldn’t think of a counterpoint quick enough.

“Explain Quirrell to me then. How has this change happened, without someone else having traveled in time?”

“You’re dismissing my alternate universe theory completely out of hand,” Hermione complained.

“As you are dismissing my multiple traveler theory,” Professor Snape pointed out with smug triumph. “They’re based on exactly the same amount of knowledge.”

Hermione made a noise of frustration. “I have over a decade of training in numerological charms!”

“So? Is this a charm?” he gestured around himself. “Was it charms that sent us back? No, we are far beyond the realm of mere charms. If you do additional research and learn anything concrete, I will listen. But until then I refuse to entertain your childish nonsense.”

Hermione was furious. She couldn’t speak for the blinding white rage that gripped her. It took several long moments of careful counting, of careful bottling up her emotions and putting them away to deal with later. She hated being infantilised more than she hated anything, and from Snape’s expression she thought he probably knew that.

But she’d had lots of practice ignoring her anger, and finally managed to speak. “Who else would you propose traveled?” she said, carefully keeping the accusation from her voice. It was ridiculous. She couldn’t say why she was so convinced Snape was wrong (especially when she’d been wondering it herself mere hours ago…), but she knew she would do everything she could to prove that she was right. “Voldemort?”

Professor Snape winced, but shook his head. “I do not know for sure, but I suspect that if he had, he would have won the war already. The fact that we are all still alive suggests not. But perhaps one of his servants.”

“And how would you prove this?” she asked.

“Careful observation,” Professor Snape said. She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

Her blood boiled again. “Fine then,” she said, standing abruptly. “We’ll both investigate our theories and then we’ll compare and see who’s right.”

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow at her. “If you insist,” he said mildly, as if he didn’t care either way.

Hermione just knew he was needling her on purpose. “Fine,” she repeated, gritting her teeth. “And the war? I know where all the horcruxes are. We’ll need Sirius’ help for one of them, and then we’ll need to break into Gringotts.” She knew she was probably sharing too much but she wanted to rile Snape up as much as he’d riled her up.

He seemed to know that, for he looked unimpressed. “Do what you will. I shall try to keep you informed if I make any large changes to the timeline.” That was it. He returned to his papers, not even bothering to watch her leave.

“Fine then,” Hermione repeated for a third time, and grabbed the rat and stormed out even though she knew she was only embarrassing herself.

Snape could go fuck himself.

* * *

Hermione felt like the biggest idiot in the world after her fight with Snape. She couldn’t believe how angry she’d gotten, and how stupid and immature she’d made herself look. She just— she really thought he’d treat her as an adult, as an equal, and hearing him dismiss her theories so quickly and talk down about her research experience was so frustrating.

She felt ashamed of herself, but she knew at the same time that she would do anything she could to prove that she’d been right. Even if she did have the terrifying suspicion that she wasn’t. Maybe she could find some way to scoot her theory around so that she was right as well, without looking too obvious about it. Argh, she was furious at herself. She felt like she was stuck — no matter what, she was going to look like an incompetent child.

After debating and berating herself for a few days longer, she decided in the end to just ignore Snape as much as she could and continue on her own plans. She had successfully captured Pettigrew, after all. That would be very useful for her.

She debated retrieving the diadem immediately. If there truly were other time travellers, perhaps there might be someone who knew where it was. But she didn’t think she’d be able to destroy it on her own. She’d never had the raw magical power that Harry had, and using Fiendfyre, especially in a school filled with children, was simply too dangerous. She suspected Snape would be able to handle it, but she chafed at the idea of talking to him again so soon. She would wait, then, as long as she dared, and then retrieve it.

The next day was Friday, and that meant another potions class. Professor Snape ignored her entirely, much to her relief and irritation. She didn’t bother trying to catch his eye, instead she kept her head down and quietly assisted Neville whenever she could.

Professor Snape was crueler to Harry this time, but no more than he was to any other Gryffindor. Hermione wondered at the change, for now she was sure it was a change, but she didn’t know what it meant. Wouldn’t knowledge of their contentious relationship make Professor Snape even more inclined to be cruel, rather than less?

Then it was the weekend, and Hermione couldn’t be bothered to keep worrying about it, too excited to finally start putting some of her plans into place.

The first thing she did was head to the flat she’d rented for herself over the summer. It wasn’t nice, but it was cheap, and since she was still working on building up funds, it would have to do. It was located in the heart of Practic Alley, in Lower Diagon, upstairs from Striker’s Somnorium.

Striker herself was in the alley where the stairs were, painting a large poster board with exaggerated flourishes of her wand. “You lost?” she asked Hermione, not unkindly. Hermione wasn’t wearing her Hogwarts uniform, so likely Striker would think her a student of one of the day schools.

“I’m visiting my cousin,” Hermione said, nodding upstairs.

“Oh oh oh, who owns the flat? Haven’t met ‘em yet at all. Very quiet neighbour!” She seemed pleased by that.

“She works really long hours,” Hermione said, pleased to have a chance to explain herself now and not have her neighbours wondering all year.

“No doubt, no doubt. Stressful job, is it? If she ever needs help falling asleep, she knows where to go!” Striker gestured at the sign, pleased with her work. _Striker’s Somnorium — Seek a Surfeit of Sleep!_ Then Striker frowned at the sign, as if suddenly displeased.

“I’ll let her know,” Hermione promised. Her wand let her through the lock on the door, and through the wards on her flat itself.

She let out a sigh of relief at being home, even if the flat was mangy and dark. Finally, a place of privacy, where she could be herself and not worry about keeping up pretences.

Still. Her flat was pretty gross. She’d spent hardly any time here at all over the summer, since she’d had all the privacy she wanted at home with her parents. They’d always been hands off, even in the summers when she was home from boarding school. She suspected that that was one of the reasons they hadn’t blinked about sending her off into the magical world. If pressed, she would guess that she’d been an accident, an unintended child to a couple who’d intended to remain childless. But she’d never questioned their love and affection, and knew she could count on them for anything she needed. It was a lot more than many children had, and she’d never resented them for it.

Besides, it certainly made everything a lot easier during school when she’d wanted to spend parts of the summer with Harry and Ron, rather than spend every possible moment with her parents. They’d never resented her for her distance either.

Cleaning spells flashed through her mind. She fingered her wand, debating whether the risk was truly necessary. But her flat was well warded, and doing magic in the heart of Lower Diagon in a flat owned by a seeming adult would not raise any eyebrows. She gave up, and settled herself in for a long bout of casting.

Truthfully, letting her magic out thrilled her. She hadn’t realised how limited she’d been at school. Her wand waved effortlessly through the air, trailing soap bubbles and sparks and a clean refreshing smell behind it. Mould was banished, spell lights added, and her broom quickly got to work Vanishing all the dust that had piled up on the floor. Even now, years after getting her Charms mastery, she revelled in the simple joy of even household charms. Finally, her flat was settled. The kitchenette was gleaming, the windows sparkled, and the living space was bright and airy.

She grinned as she made her way to the potions cabinet. Her luck held — she still had a few doses of ageing potion that hadn’t expired.

The flat was rented out to Ophelia Oleander, Hermione’s fictional cousin. She was hoping that in present day, when there was no muggleborn registry and no one was required to prove their ancestry unless they were of a Noble house, that she would be able to sell Ophelia as a half-blood. Oleander was a common enough Wizarding surname that that’s where people’s minds would go anyway, and she knew enough of the Wizarding World’s customs by now to pass without problem.

Hopefully.

She looked in the mirror, and smiled at the familiar face. It wasn’t exactly like her old appearance, since she was missing her scars, but it still felt excellent to be an adult again. The ageing potion she used only added about fifteen years, but that was plenty. No one would mistake her for a child.

It was already late morning. She’d sent Rita Skeeter a letter earlier: _I have a tip about an illegal Animagus. Come alone._ She’d included a time and place as well. Noon. A small cafe in Teknik Alley, not far from where she lived.

Hermione went alone as well. But first, she transfigured a small beetle pin and affixed it to her cloak. She brought Pettigrew with her as well.

Rita Skeeter was waiting there already when Hermione arrived.

Hermione wasn’t stupid. She knew this was risky. But she thought she knew Rita Skeeter quite well after blackmailing her. She’d spoken to the reporter a few times after the war as well, enough that they’d come to something of an understanding. Hermione hoped to recreate that understanding today, under more pleasant circumstances.

Rita’s eyes widened when she saw the cage, and hungrily followed the rat as Hermione placed him on the table between them.

“I’m a confidential source,” Hermione said quietly. “This is all off the record. No recordings of our conversation.”

Rita opened her mouth to protest, but then saw the beetle pin on Hermione’s cloak. Her mouth fell shut, and her eyes narrowed.

Carrot, and then stick.

“Why all the secrecy?” Rita asked nonchalantly. She tried to act uninterested in Hermione’s manufactured drama, but Hermione knew better.

Hermione made a show of looking around. “I think they’re on to me,” she said quietly. “Or not, I don’t know. But I can’t risk it.” She gestured at the cage. “I need to get the truth out there before anyone gets wind of it.”

“Start from the beginning,” Rita calmly instructed. She acted like she did this all the time, and probably did. Right now, years before there was even a rumour of Voldemort’s return, Rita Skeeter served no Ministry, only herself and whatever story would get her the most fame.

“I live a few alleys over. I’m a Charms Mistress, you see, and I was working on a new charm. Inspired by my cousin’s Transfiguration professor. She’s at Hogwarts.”

Rita nodded. “I went there myself,” she boasted.

“It’s a good school, my cousin likes it a lot. But the charm, it detects Animagi.”

Rita kept her face carefully still. “The rat?” she said, clearly keen to focus the conversation there.

“First I tested it around the Alleys. Near the Prophet’s offices,” Hermione said carefully. “I live down the street, not far.” That was almost true. “I’m not one to judge what someone does with their private life. It’s no business of the Ministry’s what folks are doing in their own home.” She resonated with the folksy freedom of her alter-ego’s words.

Rita didn’t react. “I see,” she said evenly, but Hermione thought they’d come to something of an accord. That was Rita Skeeter’s habit, when she saw something she didn’t like. Ignore it until it went away.

“But then I told my cousin about the charm. She loves learning new spells. She started testing it around the tower.”

“Ravenclaw, then?”

Hermione shook her head. “Gryffindor, if you can believe it or not. We were all surprised.”

“And she found this rat?” Rita asked. She was starting to look disappointed. “Illegal Animagi aren’t much of a news story.”

“That’s not the story,” Hermione said, and then paused for dramatic effect. “The story is who he is.”

“Who is he?” Rita asked, reluctantly fascinated now.

“He’s a Death Eater. Living in a first-year boy’s bed.”

Rita nodded, satisfied. That alone was a pretty good story. A Death Eater at Hogwarts, preying on children by pretending to be a beloved family pet?

“His name is Peter Pettigrew,” Hermione whispered.

Rita went white with shock. “You don’t— you don’t mean—“ she said faintly.

“I don’t know what it means at all,” Hermione said helplessly. “But I thought to myself, if Peter Pettigrew is here, why is Sirius Black in Azkaban? I looked him up. There was no trial. And with his family dead, he’s the new Lord Black. Sitting in Azkaban, with no solicitor, for a crime that he… well…” Hermione gestured helplessly at the rat.

Rita looked beyond thrilled. “I’ll need to question him,” she said, nodding at the cage between them. “Before we hand him over to the Aurors, of course,” she added hastily. Hermione was amused that Rita never questioned why Hermione had gone to her before turning Pettigrew in. It was so like Rita Skeeter.

“Do you have a safe location? Where he can’t run away?”

Rita’s mind raced. “There’s a room in the back of the offices. Barely bigger than a closet, but if you can ward it it’ll suffice.” She gave Hermione a considering look.

Hermione nodded. “I did the cage, a closet shouldn’t be too hard.”

They made their way silently through the streets. The interrogation (for that’s what it was, even though Rita called it an ‘interview’) was long and hard. At first, Pettigrew resisted everything. But the Dark Mark on his arm was clear, and Hermione knew exactly what to say to nudge him towards truth.

Rita was thrilled beyond belief. The story was juicy and sad, and involved Harry Potter. By being the reporter to expose the scandal, she may even get an interview with the boy himself, something that Professor Dumbledore had long resisted.

“Could you leave the names of me and my cousin out of the article?” Hermione asked Rita quietly, once Rita had gotten everything she wanted from Pettigrew.

Rita nodded, distracted. “Of course, of course. Confidentiality will be no problem. There’ll barely be room for any mention of you in the story at all!”

“That’s fine with me,” Hermione said. “I just shudder to think of him hiding around my young cousin. Who knows what he would’ve done if he hadn’t been found?”

“Yes,” Rita said, eyes gleaming. “Although it would appear he prefers young boys.” She gave Pettigrew a disgusted look, which only barely hid her delight in the scandal. “What do you think of the Weasleys, then? Victims or perpetrators?”

Hermione was surprised to be asked. “It seems odd that they would send him with their own son. If they were in league together, why not simply release him on Hogwarts as a whole?”

“Maybe they wanted to bring Pettigrew closer to Harry Potter,” Rita said. She smiled like a shark that smelled blood in the water.

“You think they’re Death Eaters?” Hermione asked, uncomfortable. She should’ve realised something like this would happen. Dealing with Rita was a double-edged sword. And, unfortunately, her blackmail was too valuable to waste on protecting the Weasleys from something that obviously wasn’t true. She’d need Rita on her side later; it was vital to her plans.

Deep down, in a place Hermione would never admit to, she secretly took the tiniest bit of pleasure in the idea of the Weasleys facing such scrutiny. Although she’d loved Mrs. Weasley as a child, Molly had been one of the worst parts of her marriage to Ron, overbearing and particular and judgemental in all the worst ways. As a person, she was lovely, but with her as a mother-in-law, Hermione had been in a constant battle to assert herself as her own person. Something that was not at all helped by Ron’s habit of rolling over and doing whatever his mum said.

Rita quickly wrote up her article and sent it over to her editor. It wasn’t long, simply a broad outline of the scandal with some brief opinion thrown in. The full expose would come later, after they’d turned Pettigrew into the Ministry. There would probably be a whole series of articles about this, with interviews and editorials and public response.

Having Rita with her at the Ministry really made everything smoother. The last thing Rita wanted was for the Aurors to sweep this under the rug, or have Pettigrew mysteriously disappear or die in holding. That would ruin her story, after all. So Rita took them directly to one of her contacts inside the Ministry, someone she knew they could trust.

And wasn’t Hermione surprised to see that that person was Kingsley Shacklebolt.

She was even more surprised (and disturbed) to see the air of easy camaraderie that was between them. Idly, she wondered what would happen later to make Shacklebolt dislike her. Or had he? She couldn’t recall either way. Maybe they’d always been good friends, even as Rita had dragged Dumbledore’s name through the mud.

Rita explained the situation to Shacklebolt in hushed tones. His eyes widened dramatically, and he gave the rat a wary look.

“How did you find him?” Shacklebolt asked Hermione, and from another Auror there might have been something like suspicion. But Shacklebolt was merely earnestly impressed.

“My precocious young cousin was practicing the charm to force an Animagus back into human form. She thinks it’ll help her become an Animagus herself, some day, I suppose. I thought it was silly, but, well, here we are.” When Shacklebolt looked down at Pettigrew again, Hermione sent Rita a wink. The reporter looked stunned for a moment, then slowly smiled back, grateful that Hermione hadn’t given the Aurors the details of her Animagus detection charm. It figured that the first genuine emotion she’d seen from Rita would be over want to keep her secret spying ability.

Then Shacklebolt called over Madam Bones, and Hermione settled in for a long day at the Ministry.

* * *

Sunday breakfast was normally a quiet affair. Many students trickled in late or not at all, and the ones who did were more reserved, often preoccupied with finishing up homework they had due on Monday.

The day after Hermione Granger and Rita Skeeter turned Peter Pettigrew into the Ministry, this was not so.

It started out normal enough. But then the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet was delivered, and all hell broke loose. Immediately students were abandoning breakfast and rushing back to their dormitories to fetch their friends, or running to the Owlery to excitedly mail their siblings and friends back home.

Hermione watched it all with detached amusement. When Professor Snape shot her a death glare over breakfast, she nodded courteously back at him. Soon after that Professor McGonagall rushed out of the hall. Professor Dumbledore wasn’t there, and neither was Harry.

She wondered what Harry would think, to find all this information out from the papers. Perhaps he’d feel less betrayed this time, learning this truth so soon after learning of the bigger truth of being a wizard. He was younger, too, and would benefit more from having a caring guardian.

Ron would have a hard time though. The first article didn’t mention the Weasleys at all, but she knew the later ones would, once Rita had had time to interview the members of the Weasley family. Or rather, once she’d had time to ambush the Weasleys with questions about a Death Eater they didn’t know they’d been hiding.

Once more, Hermione felt the queasiness of an unsettled conscience. And once more, she ruthlessly shoved it down. What could she do, anyway, without revealing herself?

Some time later, Professor McGonagall came back into the hall, and made a beeline for her. “Miss Granger,” her professor said kindly. “Would you please come with me?”

“Of course, professor. What’s wrong?” Hermione followed her out of the hall. They headed in the direction of the Headmaster’s office.

“There are some Aurors here who’d like to speak with you. They’re waiting for us in the Headmaster’s office.”

“Is this about the rat? I saw it was in the paper.”

“I believe so,” Professor McGonagall confirmed.

“Am I in trouble, professor?” Hermione asked uncertainly.

“I should think not!” Professor McGonagall huffed.

Hermione smiled shyly back at her.

Professor Dumbledore’s office was crowded with people when they got there. Unfortunately, the Headmaster’s phoenix wasn’t there. Hermione would’ve liked to look at it.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was there, as well as two other Aurors. And she was completely unsurprised to see Severus Snape skulking by the window. He glared at her again when she entered.

Professor Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk. His eyes twinkled at her like stars on a cloudless summer night.

“Um, hello,” Hermione said, attempting shy first-year. Professor Snape mocked her with his eyes. She resolutely ignored him.

“Are you Hermione Granger?” Shacklebolt asked kindly.

She nodded mutely.

“My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt, I’m an Auror. I talked to your cousin yesterday, did she tell you that?” In the corner, Professor Snape’s interest sharpened.

Hermione shrugged. “She said she was going to talk to the Aurors, but she didn’t tell me anything about you.”

Shacklebolt nodded. “That’s fine, that’s fine. Ophelia’s already told us her understanding of what happened, but I want to make sure we’re not missing anything. Why don’t you tell us what happened from your point of view?”

The benefit of being both Hermione and Ophelia was that it made it easy to keep her story straight. She glanced over at Professor McGonagall, who gave her an encouraging nod. “Um, a few days ago I was practicing this charm… It, um, forces Animagi to turn back into people.”

“And why were you practicing this?” Shacklebolt asked, scribbling something in his notebook. “That’s a very advanced charm for a first year.”

Hermione sheepishly looked over at Professor McGonagall. “I know it’s way too early to learn about becoming an Animagus, but I thought, well, maybe I could learn more about them in general, or learn things that would help later, when I do learn.”

Professor McGonagall sighed. “At least you had that much sense. But Miss Granger, you must remember that magic is not a toy. There can be serious dangers to practicing unfamiliar magic without an adult present. You mustn’t do it again, do you understand?”

Hermione nodded gravely, pointedly not looking at Snape. “I understand,” she said, aiming for contrite sincerity.

“So the rat turned back into a man?” Shacklebolt asked, frowning. “What happened then?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, the charm, um, well, it didn’t work all the way. It just sort of—“ she waved her hands back and forth helplessly. “He sort of flickered a bit, like almost a person, but then he was a rat again. I didn’t think anything would happen at all! I just thought he was a rat, and the spell would just hit him and do that thing where it hits an animal. The books said it was supposed to extinguish the spell. But then it hit him instead, and he started to transform but then he didn’t.”

“And he didn’t try to run away then?” Shacklebolt asked, making more notes.

“He couldn’t, he was in his cage still,” Hermione said earnestly.

A strange look went over Shacklebolt’s face. “He almost turned back into a human while still inside the cage?” he said, uncomfortable at the thought.

Professor McGonagall looked sick.

“I didn’t think he was a person,” Hermione defended herself. She needn’t have bothered. They weren’t paying attention to her, instead the three Aurors were discussing something amongst themselves in hushed tones.

Shacklebolt turned back to her. “What happened then? Why didn’t you go to your head of house?”

“Um, well, I knew I wasn’t supposed to be practicing magic by myself,” Hermione admitted, trying to look ashamed. “And my cousin is really smart, she always knows what to do.”

“I bet she is,” Professor Snape muttered under his breath.

“Severus, please,” Professor McGonagall chastised him. He sighed and leaned against the window sill, crossing his arms over his chest with feigned indifference.

“So you sent the rat to your cousin?” Shacklebolt asked.

Hermione did everything she could not to look like she was lying. This was the weakest part of her story, and she knew it. “Yeah, I did,” she said. She hoped the fact that she was eleven would keep scrutiny off of her. What reason did she have to lie, anyway? No one would ever suspect the truth.

Shacklebolt considered her for a long moment. She forced herself not to hold her breath, and just act natural. It was painfully hard when she was concentrating on it so much. Finally, he nodded. “That clears things up for me, thank you.”

The Aurors conferred amongst themselves again, and then without much fanfare, they disappeared through the Headmaster’s fireplace.

Leaving Hermione alone with her professors once more.

“Miss Granger, please, have a seat,” Professor Dumbledore said. “Minerva, Severus, thank you.” It was a clear dismissal, yet both of them hesitated before leaving. Then glared at each other when they saw the other hesitating. Hermione could hear them bickering as they made their way down the stairs.

“Cough drop?” Professor Dumbledore asked her in that grandfatherly way of his.

“Um, no thank you, sir,” Hermione said, then watched in amused fascination as the Headmaster popped four cough drops into his mouth. Harry had mentioned the Headmaster’s love of lemon drops, but he hadn’t mentioned that it extended to cough drops as well.

“It soothes the throat,” Professor Dumbledore said, words muffled by his full mouth. He swallowed. Had he… swallowed the cough drops? Indeed, his voice was clear as he kept speaking. “So! Peter Pettigrew! What do you know of him?”

“Just what the papers said, professor. That he was a Death Eater.”

Professor Dumbledore nodded vigorously. “And apparently a pervert as well, it seems! Hiding out with young children, dear me, dear me.”

Hermione struggled to keep her composure. How much would an eleven-year-old know about perverts? Just general warnings from parents, right? Harry had always said that the Headmaster was a bit crazy, but apparently he’d been understating it. “I guess so,” she settled on.

Professor Dumbledore didn’t seem to mind her response. “Now Miss Granger, I know Professor McGonagall will likely punish you for using magic without supervision. This is because she is no fun whatsoever. She thinks children should be coddled and kept safe. And that is a fine thing for her to think, she is a professor after all. But I do not share her opinion.”

“No, sir?” Hermione said, when Professor Dumbledore paused.

“No, Hogwarts is a school of magic! The sooner that students learn that magic can be terrible and dangerous, the better off they’ll be. Besides, magical accidents among teenagers only have a 1% fatality rate. Magical accidents build character!”

Suddenly Professor Snape’s continued appointment as a professor made a lot more sense. “Oh,” Hermione said, unsure of what to say. This was certainly a side of the Headmaster she’d never seen before.

“Whiskey?” he offered, as he poured himself a glass from a comically large bottle.

“Um, I’m eleven,” Hermione pointed out.

“Oh yes, as you say,” Professor Dumbledore said, and threw back the shot. He poured himself another generous helping. “What was I saying again?”

“I’m not really sure, professor,” Hermione said honestly.

“Oh yes! Experiment with magic all you’d like. But the next time you find a Death Eater hiding in the castle, report it to your professors, yes? Not the papers?” He peered at her sternly over his half-moon glasses.

Hermione knew her face was bright red. “Yes, professor, of course,” she mumbled out.

“There’s a good girl. Off you go, then.”

Hermione rushed away from the Headmaster’s office, deeply disturbed by their meeting. How much did he know? Did he know anything? If he knew, why not just say it? Or maybe he didn’t, and she was reading too much into things. But she’d been planning on telling him anyway, right? Except she remembered how much trouble Harry had had with the Headmaster in sixth year, and now seeing him drinking hard liquor on a Sunday morning… Perhaps she would wait a little longer before talking to him. Until she was absolutely sure of what she wanted to say. (And once her plans were a little farther along.)

She was so distracted by her thoughts, she didn’t even notice the arm reach out and grab her, pulling her into an unused classroom.

Professor Snape glared down at her.

Hermione smiled slightly to herself as she warded the door. “Yes, professor?” she asked innocently. “Was something wrong with my last essay?”

“You haven’t even turned in any essays yet,” Professor Snape said, scowling. “It’s worksheets until October.”

“Oh right.”

“Well?” Professor Snape said harshly, when she’d fallen silent. “Aren’t you going to explain yourself?”

“Explain what?” Hermione said, confused and annoyed about it. “What did you think I was going to do?”

“I expected you to use your brain for once. Clearly this was a foolhardy assumption. I shouldn’t be surprised, of course, that a Gryffindor is incapable of using her head for the two seconds it would require to see that turning Pettigrew’s arrest into a huge spectacle is an idiotic idea. The Ministry looks incompetent. The Headmaster looks blind. And soon enough the Weasleys will look like supporters of the Dark Lord. Is that what you intended, Miss Granger? To smear the institutions and families that most need to be strong if we are to wage yet another war?”

As if he gave a single shit what people thought of the Weasleys. Hermione stayed silent. She couldn’t explain herself without revealing her plans. It was better to let Snape think she was an idiot than to draw the wrong sort of attention.

Right?

“I see,” Professor Snape said, finally. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Thirty-two years old and still just as ignorant as you were at eleven.”

Hermione drew herself up. “Maybe so,” she said, and it took all of her willpower to keep her voice even and her composure in tact. “But at least I don’t need to resort to childish name calling to express my personal _opinions_.” She forced herself to move, away from the room and away from Snape’s burning glare.

She went back to her dorm and locked herself in the bathroom, and if she cried in the shower, well, who was to know?

For the first time since Hermione found herself eleven years old again, she realised the depth of what she had lost. All those who knew her as she truly was were gone, lost in a future that would never exist now.

And Hermione was left completely alone.


	3. Take a Walk, Ron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the spell theory in this chapter. I got carried away. Easy enough to skim if it's not your thing. Also, I sincerely apologize to any mathematicians or physicists reading this. I promise, it's only going to get worse from here. I love misappropriating jargon and refuse to refresh my memory on exact definitions. (If I wanted to spend my time learning math/physics I would've stayed in grad school.) 
> 
> For everyone else... a quick note on Severus Snape. In general, my characterization of Snape is greatly influenced by Laventadorn's fic, the Never-ending Road. However, it's not an exact copy. My characerization will likely not agree with everyone, and that's fine. I'm less interested in emulating canon and more interested in writing a character that makes sense given his background and is interesting to read and write about. From a practical perspective, that means the Severus Snape in this fic has emerged from his various traumas tired and apathetically bitter, rather than moved to new heights of ugly cruelty. I think the second might be more canon, but I just can't write that. 
> 
> To be clear, I'm not saying the Snape in this fic is a brand new character. Rather, I've chosen to emphasize different aspects of his personality than another writer might have. 
> 
> And as thanks for reading my long author's note... here's a nice long chapter :)

From her place on the sidelines, Hermione spied on Harry Potter.

She had good intentions, she told herself. She wanted to know how Harry felt about having his godfather not only out of Azkaban two years early, but a free man as well. She had originally assumed that Harry would be invited to the trial, but she saw no indication that he had been. Likely they’d deemed Harry too young for grisly detailed descriptions of mass murder.

Hermione hadn’t been asked to attend the trials either, much to her extreme relief. Not even Peter Pettigrew’s. She wondered at that, but after reading the description of the trial that was in the papers, she supposed they simply hadn’t needed her. Pettigrew had taken something akin to a plea bargain — in order to avoid the Kiss, he’d given up quite a few names and other information. Most of it was already known, but there were some key gems in there that Rita Skeeter had pounced on and which had thrown the Ministry into disarray.

A soft smile stole over Hermione’s lips as she remembered the outcry following the reveal that Ludo Bagman had been an informant for Voldemort. At first no one believed it, but then Ludo fled the country and signed his own warrant. Meanwhile, she revelled in the chaos.

But tiny Harry did not. The only thing he cared about was the fact that he had a godfather. Hermione used a vision magnification charm to read the letter Harry was writing from the other side of the Gryffindor common room. She’d spied on a few of his other letters as well, and knew that Harry regularly exchanged letters with Sirius.

This letter was particularly interesting, because Harry and Sirius were arranging to meet. It appeared Professor Dumbledore had given them permission to meet some weekend, at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, pending approval by the Board of Governors. Harry would need to be accompanied by Professor McGonagall, since he wasn’t a third-year yet, but it was still a privilege not often extended to younger students. But in this universe, Harry and Malfoy had never been unsupervised in their flying lessons, and Harry had never had a chance to show off. He’d never received any special accommodations to join the team, and so there was still plenty of goodwill left towards him on the Board. Hermione was sure his visit would be approved.

Hermione was pleased to see Harry so happy. It was like a weight had lifted off his shoulders. He had even been better at managing the unkind words some of his classmates (namely, Malfoy). Before where he would’ve gotten angry or gone into a funk, now the words rolled right off his back.

Ron was… not as happy.

This wasn’t surprising. As the weeks rolled past Hermione’s birthday and into October, the papers continued to talk about the scandal (Rita Skeeter was really wringing everything she could from this story). At first there’d been mostly factual pieces, first about the scandal itself and then historical pieces about similar instances in the past and how they’d been handled. Then had come the speculation, where Rita practically ripped apart every decision the Ministry had made at the end of the war, suggesting that there may be others who were imprisoned incorrectly or who got away.

And then the opinion pieces had started. In retrospect, Hermione suspected that they’d been triggered by an unflattering but fair interview with Arthur Weasley. He’d discussed how he’d found the rat and given it to his children, and how he’d never seen any indication that the rat was anything other than a rat. Rita Skeeter had danced around the question of how he could be so careless, but Arthur had expressed real remorse that he’d done something that could’ve endangered his children. Hermione had been surprised but relieved, thinking that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t. The next day, someone had written a particularly tasteless letter asserting that the Weasleys, given how much they’d suffered during the first war, should have been extra careful and how if it hadn’t been for luck, they might’ve all been killed in their sleep. Then someone else wrote in defending them, saying it wasn’t their fault and it should’ve been Hogwarts staff that found Pettigrew, and the fact that the professors hadn’t noticed an Animagus living in the dorms suggested that there was absolutely no security at all.

Unsurprisingly, things exploded from there. Hermione suspected that Rita had been just waiting for someone to complain about Hogwarts, so that she could publish a series of articles ripping apart every single aspect of Hogwarts security. Hermione suspected that the discretion came not from Rita’s non-existent sense of fair play, but from the fact that in 1991, the public had a very favourable opinion of Hogwarts.

Ron, of course, was both at the centre of and completely removed from the whole mess. Within days, everyone in school had known it was Ron’s rat, but at first they hadn’t known what that meant.

It was Malfoy who said it first, at the breakfast table one morning in the middle of October. He’d come sauntering over, a wicked grin on his face. “Weasley,” he said snidely, with the air of someone who thought themselves exceptionally clever. “You look better-rested than usual. Now that Pettigrew isn’t keeping you up all night, I suppose.”

It took a moment for the first years to understand what Malfoy was saying. Hermione couldn’t even believe he’d said it. But then Ron pieced it together (unsurprising, given that he had five older brothers) and stood up in a rush, face turning bright red with anger. Everyone could tell he was about to punch Malfoy, who was clearly excited at the prospect of starting a fight.

But before Ron could do anything, Percy stepped forward, staring down at Malfoy with a look of such disgust that the smirk was immediately wiped from Malfoy’s face.

“Would you like to repeat that to Professor McGonagall?” Percy asked quietly, putting his arm around Ron’s shoulders.

Malfoy shook his head, mute with horror.

“Then return to your table immediately.” Percy’s voice was so cold it could freeze alcohol.

Malfoy immediately scampered off as fast as he could without looking like he was running away.

Ron was still fuming, and wouldn’t even look at Percy.

Percy pushed Ron back into his seat, and sat down next to him. “Are you alright?” he asked in a quiet voice.

Ron nodded, but glared down at his plate without saying anything.

“Ron, come with me,” Percy said with a sigh, pulling Ron back up and out of the Great Hall.

Hermione followed (she absolutely did not want to miss this conversation) as quickly as she could without looking suspicious, but no one was paying attention to her anyway, too busy gossiping about how gallant and handsome (ugh) Percy was. She followed them silently, but to her surprise they didn’t go far. Percy pulled Ron into a side corridor that was infrequently used, and would guarantee a decent level of privacy. As long as no sneaky little twelve-year-olds followed them.

“Are you okay?” Percy asked again.

“Why’d you give me the rat?” Ron blew up. “Why didn’t you figure out that he wasn’t really a rat? You always said he was weird! And then you just— you just gave him to me and he slept in my bed and I pet him and he lived in my pocket and I gave him treats like he was a rat but he wasn’t a rat! And you gave him to me!” Ron’s shouting echoed down the corridor. Hermione hoped they were far enough away from anyone that no one came to investigate and ended the conversation.

She’d never realised how affected by Scabbers Ron had been. Maybe it was different when he’d discovered the truth at thirteen rather than eleven. Maybe he’d been better at hiding it by then.

“Ron, I’m sorry,” Percy said, and Hermione could hear the guilt and horror in his voice. “I promise you, I didn’t know. I thought he was a rat, too. I— he slept in my bed too, Ron.”

They fell silent for a moment, and then Hermione thought she could hear the quiet sounds of sniffling.

“It’ll be okay,” Percy said soothingly. “I promise you.” There was a long silence, and then Percy said hesitantly, “Ron, mum and dad told me to ask— well, did he ever— did you ever see him as a man?”

“No!” Ron said vehemently. “No, I would’ve said if I knew, I swear, I swear!” The hiccoughing sounds of crying grew louder.

“It’s okay, Ron, shh,” Percy said. “Did Scabbers ever— did he ever do anything that made you uncomfortable? Or afraid?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said helplessly through his tears. “I thought he was a rat, I don’t know! I can’t remember! I don’t remember and I don’t know if—“ Ron fell into crying again.

“I know what you mean,” Percy said, in a grim voice. “But anything that happened wasn’t your fault, okay? And— and he’d been a rat for a long time. The article said that when he’d turned back into a human again, he was very rat-like. So maybe— maybe while he was a rat he was mostly a rat. And not a person.” Percy sounded more like he was talking to himself than to Ron, but slowly Ron’s crying slowed down.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said miserably. “Can you tell mum that I’m sorry?”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for!” Percy said, scandalised. “Haven’t mum and dad told you that they’re the ones who’re sorry? They wouldn’t say it so many times if they thought you were the one who needed to apologise to them!”

“Okay,” Ron said, his weeping had stopped. “Okay.”

Hermione could just picture young Ron pulling himself together. First drying his tears, then fixing his shirt (the only times he bothered) and then squaring his shoulders and plastering a determined expression on his face.

Suddenly she couldn’t listen to this anymore. She was furious with herself for listening in on something so personal, especially when it involved her future/former husband.

Hermione went to go find Harry. Maybe he was having a better day.

* * *

It was a Monday evening in late October when Hermione realised she hadn’t hung out with Neville in ages. She’d been so busy with research that she hadn’t bothered to keep up her childhood life as well. She found Neville in the common room, puzzling over their Potions homework.

“Working on Potions?” Hermione asked, not bothering to say anything about the fact that it was due tomorrow and Neville had done practically none of it.

“Hermione!” Neville exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?” He sounded genuinely bewildered.

“I thought I’d join you. If that’s alright?” Hermione hadn’t even considered the idea that Neville might not want to spend time with her. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing.

But Neville was too kind-hearted to send her away, even though she’d been ignoring him outside of classes for weeks. He just smiled softly at her and made room at his table.

“Thanks,” Hermione said, sitting down. She started to take out her homework, only to realise that Neville had largely abandoned his.

“What do you think of the trial?” Neville asked in hushed excitement, looking around for anyone who might hear them. “Can you believe it! A D-Death Eater, living in our dorm!” His face took on a greenish tinge.

“Crazy,” Hermione agreed.

Neville didn’t seem like he was paying her any attention anyway. “I think I was lucky,” he said nervously. “I was never alone with Scabbers, I think. Ron carried him everywhere! Do you think he knew?”

Hermione couldn’t believe Neville could ask something like that, but then, of course he could. He didn’t really know Ron. “I don’t think so,” she said, trying not to think about young Ron crying piteously.

“He always kept him close… Was he trying to protect us? Or protect him?” Neville was staring somewhere far away.

“I think he just liked his rat,” Hermione suggested hesitantly.

“Hannah said that maybe Ron is secretly a Death Eater in disguise and now that the rat is gone he’ll have to carry out his mission to kill Harry all by himself,” Neville told her urgently.

“What?”

“You know, Hannah Abbot? In Hufflepuff?”

“I know who she is,” Hermione said, annoyed. Of course she knew who Hannah was.

“That’s good!” Neville said. “You should talk to her. She has a lot of theories. Maybe Ron is You-Know-Who himself!” He didn’t look like he believed it, but he didn’t look like he thought it was false, either.

“Ron?” Hermione said skeptically.

Neville shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. It seems unlikely, doesn’t it? But then doesn’t that make him the perfect person? Since no one suspects?” Neville looked confused as he tried to twist around the logic in his mind.

“I don’t think Ron is anyone but Ron,” Hermione said. “I don’t think he knew anything about Scabbers at all.”

Neville shuddered. “I would know,” he said with conviction. “If Trevor were evil, I would know.”

“Well.” Hermione didn’t know what to say to that. She’d never seen even a hint of a personality from Trevor. Could toads even have personalities?

“Oh no, there he is,” Neville moaned. Ron had entered the common room with Harry. Harry looked in high spirits, and was holding another letter. He got a lot of mail now. Ron looked dour, with a trace of familiar anger on his face. “We have to help Harry,” Neville said firmly.

“Help him how?” Hermione asked warily. She’d much rather avoid Ron altogether if possible.

“Hey Harry!” Neville said, when the two boys came closer. “We’re doing Potions homework.” Neville gave himself away almost immediately, looking over at Ron and then immediately looking away in fear. Still, Hermione thought it was sweet that Neville was trying at all, even if it was badly done and exceedingly misguided.

“Maybe I have Potions homework,” Ron said forcefully, throwing his school bag onto a chair. “Did you ever think of that? Huh, Neville?”

“You- you can join too,” Neville managed, voice faint with terror.

“Ron, Neville’s just being friendly,” poor, naive Harry said. He set his bag down as well. “We’d love to join, Neville.”

Neville cowered away from Ron’s anger. He only lasted a few minutes of Ron fuming next to him before he suddenly shot up. “I forgot something in the library!” he gasped out, and then practically ran for the portrait hole.

Hermione sighed, but kept writing. She actually was working on Potions. She never bothered doing her homework much in advance now, since she got through it so quickly. Sometimes she did it during class instead of taking notes.

“Aren’t you going to go too?” Ron said nastily.

“I didn’t forget anything,” Hermione said mildly.

Ron glowered at her.

Harry nudged Ron, but Ron didn’t react. He looked over at Hermione and gave her a small, helpless shrug. _I tried_ , it seemed to say. _Ron’s just being Ron._

Hermione was used to Ron’s moods, and ignored him with a practiced ease.

In the end though, it didn’t matter, because not even fifteen minutes later, Ron burst to his feet. “Come on, Harry, let’s go sit with our real friends,” he said snidely. Hermione was more amused than anything. She hadn’t realised they were close enough for her to even be considered a fake friend.

Harry gave her an embarrassed look, but followed Ron obediently.

Hermione watched them go with mixed feelings. She didn’t like the distance that Ron was forcing between her and Harry, but she also didn’t particularly want to be spending more time with Ron. And she knew that distance between them was only natural. After all, she was so much older than them. But she needed to stay close to Harry. It was critical.

Still, she had her ace in the whole. After Halloween next week, she knew they’d all be the best of friends. Fighting trolls was its own special kind of magic.

* * *

Halloween was a gorgeous crisp fall day. Hermione’s spirits were sky high, and she enjoyed the buzzing excitement of her classmates. Everyone was looking forward to the feast that evening, except Hermione, who was looking forward to missing it.

Charms was proceeding exactly as planned.

“That’s very nice, Miss Granger!” Professor Flitwick said in excitement at her perfect charm. “Well done indeed!”

Hermione sent Ron a taunting glance (out of sight of the professor, of course). She’d been carefully needling him all class.

Next to her, Ron’s scowl could’ve killed a pixie.

“Let’s see yours, Mister Weasley,” Professor Flitwick said.

“ _Wingradium Levisa_ ,” Ron muttered angrily. His feather melted into the table.

“Not quite right, but no harm done!” Professor Flitwick said, alarmed by Ron’s dark mood. He quickly summoned another feather. “Try again.”

“ _Winegardium Laviosa_!” Ron practically shouted, stabbing his feather harshly.

If Professor Flitwick hadn’t conjured a dome around the feather, Ron probably would’ve burnt his face off.

“Why don’t you practice with Miss Granger,” Professor Flitwick suggested.

“Her?” Ron said in outrage. “She’s the reason I can’t cast this stupid spell!”

“Mister Weasley!” Professor Flitwick exclaimed, shocked.

“She won’t stop with her ‘I-know-everything-look-how-perfect-I-am’ attitude and I’m so sick of it! Why don’t you just leave, Granger, if you already know anything! No one can stand you anyway!”

Hermione stared at Ron, stunned. She glanced around the room. Some people looked horrified, but some people were giving small subconscious nods of agreement.

Harry looked mortified by Ron’s explosion.

Professor Flitwick was furious. “Mister Weasley!” he said, and despite his lack of height he managed to bear down on Ron quite imposingly. “Never in my years as a professor have I ever seen such rudeness directed at a fellow student!” Privately, Hermione thought that was unlikely. “I will be speaking with Professor McGonagall about this, and I’m sure she will have some choice words for you! Now if you can’t participate in this lesson, then sit down and take notes from your textbook. I expect a full extra scroll from you next lesson detailing the _proper_ method of casting the Levitation charm.”

Ron sank into his seat, glaring at his desk top. He angrily flipped open his textbook and practically stabbed the parchment with his quill.

Professor Flitwick turned to her. “Are you alright, Miss Granger?” he asked kindly.

“May I be excused, professor?” Hermione asked. She hadn’t needed to fake the tremor in her voice.

“Of course,” Professor Flitwick said, softening. “You did very well today.”

Hermione gathered her things and left the room. Ron refused to look at her, which wasn’t surprising, but Harry refused to look at her as well which sent her stomach sinking down.

She was thirty-three years old. She’d had a lot of different life experiences, many of them horrible. But there was something about the sheer hatred in Ron’s voice, someone who’d once loved her, which left her deeply unsettled.

Still, she assured herself as she settled into the bathroom, it would only be for a few hours. Then after the troll everything would go back to normal and the three of them would be best friends.

The hours slipped away. Hermione had brought a book into the bathroom with her, and enjoyed her break from pretending to care about first-year classes.

Six o’clock. When had the troll originally broken in? She couldn’t remember, she only remembered crying in the bathroom all day. Doubt started to creep in. Maybe the troll had taken a different direction. She did a quick stealthy search of the surrounding corridors, but there was no sign of any troll. And there definitely would be.

Seven o’clock. No matter, the feast was still going strong. Still no sign of the troll anywhere.

Eight o’clock. Had it really been that late the first time?

Nine o’clock. Surely the feast would be over by now…

Ten o’clock. And time to admit defeat.

The troll wasn’t coming.

* * *

The next few days were uncomfortable for Hermione. At first she thought maybe she’d missed it, but no. There hadn’t been a troll at all. Her classmates gave her a wide berth, as if she were the one who’d had a meltdown in Charms. Ron and Harry continued to be friends, but their relationship had taken on a strained quality. Subtle, but clearly there to someone who knew them well.

Professor McGonagall made Ron apologise to her in addition to his detentions, but it was clear he didn’t mean it. But he started ignoring her completely, which she had to admit was an improvement.

Neville was kind to her afterwards, but now he was even more convinced that Ron was secretly a Death Eater or Voldemort or some other shade of evil.

Hermione pragmatically decided to back off for a while, and let Ron and Harry sort themselves out. There would be plenty of other opportunities for danger that she could insert herself into (she hoped). All she had to do was wait until an opportunity came along, and then let Harry and Ron ride to her rescue. Easy.

In the meantime, Hermione thought she might have a different strategy for staying involved with the war (aside from simply ending it— even if she did destroy the horcruxes quickly enough, Voldemort’s followers would still be out there). She’d been too focused on staying connected with Harry, but he wasn’t the only one involved in the fight, not by a long shot.

And what a coincidence, just such a person would be in Hogsmeade this weekend, visiting his godson.

Hermione went home first, to her apartment in Practic Alley. Apparition really changed how a person thought about distance, and anyway she suspected it was safer to take the ageing potion in the privacy of her own home.

And speaking of home… Hermione looked around her flat with a critical eye. Her investments were steadily growing, but not at any sort of significant rate due to the limited amount of money she was able to put in them. Even if they tripled overnight, it still wouldn’t make her as fabulously wealthy as she suspected she’d need to be if she wanted to make real change in the world. What she really needed was more money to invest. She knew what would pay off well in the long run, and when the biggest market crashes were, but she wouldn’t be able to take advantage of that information if she didn’t have any money to start with.

Dear Merlin, she’d need to get a job, wouldn’t she. At least until her investments finally hit the satisfying part of the exponential growth curve. A job that was only done on weekends or by mail, that had flexible hours, that wouldn’t require any professional accreditations…

Fuck. She had to make getting her Charms Mastery a priority. She’d taken her N.E.W.T.s as Ophelia over the summer (and thank god she’d come back in time for the second summer testing period), but Masteries weren’t as simple as taking an exam. There was an exam, yes, but she’d also need to publish two academic papers and present original research to the ECRB (the Experimental Charms Review Board).

Hermione sighed as she put the rest of the potion away. She had too much to do and too little time. Having two different identities who both had lives to live was frankly exhausting. At least she could combine them. She had plenty of time at Hogwarts to write papers. And she could just re-do the research she’d done originally for her Mastery. Boring, but hopefully this time it wouldn’t take five years. At least setting up her fake identity had been easy. Anyone who had muggle papers could get registered with the Ministry without issue, albeit as a muggleborn. Apparently the Ministry didn’t give a shit if people impersonated muggleborns, which said a lot.

All that could wait. Hermione Apparated back to Hogsmeade, and settled in at the bar counter in the Three Broomsticks. She was well away from Sirius’ table, but with a subtle charm their conversation came into sudden auditory focus.

Hermione ordered and ate lunch mechanically as she listened, textbook in front of her that she pretended to study.

“But you’re enjoying Hogwarts?” Sirius asked anxiously. She’d missed the first chunk of their conversation, but that was fine. She was more interested in catching Sirius afterwards.

“Yes, Sirius, I promise,” Harry said, with fond exasperation.

“Madam Hooch says he’s an excellent flyer,” Professor McGonagall told Sirius.

“She did?” Harry said, managing to sound both amazed and embarrassed.

“She thinks you’d be an excellent addition to the Gryffindor Quidditch team next year,” Professor McGonagall said, clear pride in her voice. “Although if it were up to me you’d be on it this year…” she added in a mutter.

“That’s right, James was an excellent flyer,” Sirius said in surprise, as if he were just now remembering. “Maybe— maybe we could go flying together some time?” he asked hesitantly.

“That would be awesome!” Harry said excitedly.

“On broomsticks, I hope,” Professor McGonagall said, but her voice was more teasing than strict.

“I don’t even know where my old bike is,” Sirius said. “I think Remus put it in storage somewhere.”

“Remus? Is that Moony?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, that’s right. He was another friend of your dad’s and me. He’s a great guy, you’ll really like him.”

“He sent me a letter,” Harry said. “Do you think he’d tell me stories about my dad if I asked?”

“Of course he would,” Sirius said emphatically. “He’d— I wish I could tell you some. It’s coming back to me, the healers promise.”

“And the other effects?” Professor McGonagall asked delicately. Night terrors, depression, hand tremors, constipation — not stuff to talk about in front of a kid.

“I’m managing,” Sirius said. “It’s getting better. I think by Christmas I’ll be down to two appointments per week.” He sounded hopeful.

“Hmm,” Professor McGonagall said thoughtfully. “And your living situation?”

“Apartment in Upper Diagon,” Sirius said promptly. Hermione sighed with jealousy. That was a nice area.

“Is that Diagon Alley?” Harry asked curiously. “They have apartments there?”

“It’s nearby, Mister Potter. There are many other alleys and neighbourhoods past Diagon Alley.”

“Wow!” Harry said, amazed by the knowledge rather than embarrassed by his ignorance. Hermione missed being that young.

“What are your Christmas plans, Harry?” That was Sirius. “I’ll have space, if you want?” he asked uncertainly.

“I was going to stay at Hogwarts,” Harry said. “Oh, please professor, could I stay with Sirius instead?”

“Permission will have to come from the Headmaster,” Professor McGonagall said in amusement. “But he will likely agree. _If_ you can prove to me, Sirius Black, that your apartment is fit for a child, rather than a den of iniquity and—“ she cut herself off. “Well?”

“Maybe you can visit first,” Sirius said weakly.

“I certainly will,” Professor McGonagall said sharply. “But I suppose if I find it sufficient, I can convince the Headmaster to allow you the holiday.”

“My first ever Christmas!” Harry said, star-struck.

There was a pointed silence between Professor McGonagall and Sirius.

“Mister Potter, we’ll need to be getting back to the castle soon.”

“Okay,” Harry said, and he was too polite to whine about it. “Sirius, will you write me?” Ugh, how was he this shy and adorable. Hermione couldn’t stand it.

“Of course I will!” Sirius said. “And Remus will write more letters too, okay? And maybe next time we see each other you’ll be able to meet him?”

“Yeah!”

Hermione paid for lunch and left. It was time to put the next part of her plan in place.

A gentle charm, cast on the door to the Three Broomsticks. Too gentle to affect Harry and Professor McGonagall, who already had a firm destination in mind, but enough to encourage Sirius to…

Yes! It was working. Quickly Hermione made her way into the Hog’s Head and sat at the bar, ordering a drink.

Aberforth served her without issue. A moment later, Sirius entered, testament to her incredible charms work. Or perhaps he would’ve come in anyway, Hermione realised, as Sirius immediately made a beeline for Aberforth.

“Sirius Black,” Aberforth said with a nod. “Out of prison.”

“Finally,” Sirius agreed. “It’s been a hell of a decade. Literally.”

“Drink?”

“Do you remember my usual?” Sirius asked.

“Apple brandy, fire whiskey, and a peppermint stick,” Aberforth said, and pulled out an already prepared drink from behind the bar. “On the house,” he commented, as he pushed the drink over to Sirius.

Sirius looked like he was about to start crying. “Thank you,” he said, voice choked up. “It’s been— thank you.”

“That’s disgusting,” Hermione commented lightly, from down the bar.

Sirius glanced over at her. “I’ll have you know it’s amazing,” he said. “What are you drinking?”

“Coffee liqueur,” Hermione said.

“Mixed with…?”

“No, just alone,” Hermione admitted.

Sirius smirked. “And yet I’m the disgusting one. Sirius Black,” he said, holding out his hand.

Hermione shook it. “Ophelia Oleander.” She tensed.

Sirius’ eyes widened in recognition. “You’re the one who turned him in,” he breathed out. Aberforth was looking at her curiously now.

“Yeah,” Hermione said. “But you have my cousin to thank for that. She’s a first-year up at the castle. She’s the one who found him.”

“Must be Gryffindor then. Is she friends with Harry?” Sirius was suddenly eager.

Hermione shrugged. “Classmates, yes, not sure if they’re actual friends.” Hopefully soon. Or… maybe it was best if they weren’t, she suddenly realised. It would be pretty hard to pull off both Hermione and Ophelia visiting them.

Sirius was nodding. “I’m very grateful to her. And to you, for actually turning him in. Can I ask…” he hesitated for just a moment. “Why Skeeter? Why not go straight to the Aurors?”

“Honestly?” Hermione said, glancing around them. She needn’t have bothered. There wasn’t anyone else in the bar. “I was worried that if I went straight to the Ministry, then… Well, who knows what could’ve happened before Pettigrew went to trial. I figured with the story in the papers, the Ministry wouldn’t be able to do anything but figure out the truth.”

Aberforth looked at her thoughtfully, but Sirius just nodded, a dark expression on his face. “Probably,” he said, swirling the peppermint stick around in his drink. It was slowly dissolving from the heat of the fire whiskey. “I wouldn’t put it past them. You know, when I graduated, I wanted to be an Auror?”

“It’s still a respectable profession.”

“Not to my parents,” Sirius snorted. “They thought it was gauche to have a job. That’s the only reason I wanted to, really. But even then things were dirty.”

“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t in the country then,” Hermione admitted.

“School?” Sirius asked, evaluating her. She looked a few years younger than him, even though she was the same age. A little older, actually.

Hermione shrugged. “Sort of. I was raised abroad, but I had tutors. I didn’t come back to Britain until it was… until it was safe.”

“After my time then,” Sirius said, bitterness creeping into his voice.

“Your time is now,” Hermione said, with a sudden emotion she hadn’t realised she felt. Sirius Black may have been arrogant and reckless (as far as she could remember, anyway), but she couldn’t stand the blatant injustice that had been done to him, and to Harry by extension.

Sirius looked at her, surprised, but appreciative. “So what do you—“ He turned automatically to glance at the door opening, and then froze, a dark expression quickly taking over his face.

Severus Snape stood in the doorway, the surprise disappearing from his face so quickly that Hermione wasn’t sure it was ever really there. “Black,” he said, graciously. “Congratulations on your recent release from prison.”

“Snape,” Sirius said warily. Hermione was taken back by Professor Snape’s calm demeanour. Perhaps remembering Sirius’ death matured him?

“I’m surprised you even wanted to leave. How ever will you manage without the bony, sensuous body of Bell—“

“You piece of shit—!” Sirius shouted, and tackled Snape to the ground.

Perhaps he hadn’t matured at all, then, Hermione thought to herself, as she watched the two grown men tussling on the floor.

“Was she the only cousin you fucked or did you have the rest of the Lestranges too?” Snape managed to elbow Sirius in the face.

“You would fucking know you incestuous—“ Sirius kneed Snape in the stomach, only to receive a punch to the kidney.

“You’re as— bony as a skeleton—“ Snape panted, as he tried to get a grip on Sirius’ wriggly form.

“You’re as greasy as a— hamburger,” Sirius managed, and whooped with triumph as he got in a good hit to Snape’s jawbone.

His triumph was short-lived as Snape returned the punch with an elbow to the neck.

Hermione took a sip of her drink.

“Fuck you!” Sirius wheezed, and tried in vain to get another good hit in. Snape kept slapping his attempts away.

“Aren’t you going to stop them?” Hermione asked Aberforth curiously.

Aberforth shrugged. “No point. They’ll tire themselves out eventually.”

Indeed, he was right. A few minutes later, both men were lying on the floor, panting.

“You’re not going to get served if you keep lying on the floor,” Aberforth called over the bar.

Slowly, the two of them managed to drag themselves up. Sirius returned to his seat, a fresh bruise developing on his cheek.

Snape took a seat farther down the bar, glaring daggers at them. “What are you doing here?” he spat at Hermione.

“Ophelia has every right to be here!” Sirius snarled back. “Unlike some dirty fucking Death Eaters.”

Hermione hid a smile behind her glass.

“I’m not the one who was in Azkaban for a decade,” Professor Snape shot back.

“I was falsely accused! I never got a trial!”

“Lucky for you, because if you had then people might’ve discovered the crimes you actually did commit.”

Aberforth slammed the glass he was cleaning on to the bar. “If you two don’t shut up, you’re both out of here,” he growled. “I’m sick of hearing you idiots going at it.”

“He started it,” Sirius muttered under his breath, but shut up when Aberforth shot him a look.

“I’ll have a pint,” Professor Snape said, composure restored. The only trace of their altercation was the reddening bruise along his jaw, and his mussed up clothes. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up.

Sirius looked over at him with poorly disguised envy. “So Ophelia,” he said, too loudly in his attempt to be casual. “How do you know the esteemed professor?” Sirius seemed to have warmed greatly to her since seeing Snape’s disdain for her. Hermione would have to thank him for that.

“Through work,” Hermione said simply. Down the bar, Professor Snape took a furious drag off the cigarette.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a researcher,” Hermione explained. “Experimental charms. Except recently I’ve started looking into this other project, and I thought Professor Snape could perhaps be of some assistance to me.”

“Assistance to you?” Snape broke in. “I think you’ll find that you were the one assisting me, and rather ineffectually at that.” But it was clear his heart wasn’t in it. He seemed… tired, Hermione realised. Worn out, and not just from the fighting.

“It’s a complicated project,” Hermione told Sirius, deciding to ignore Snape for now.

“It sounds fascinating,” Sirius said, shooting her a dazzling smile. “What else are you working on?”

“Well, I still have to get my UK Mastery,” Hermione said, warming up to the conversation. She missed talking to adults, as an adult. “I have my research that I did overseas, though, so I’m hoping I can submit that. I’ll need to publish my papers in a British journal for them to qualify, but I’m confident they’ll be accepted.”

“It sounds like you’re quite the skilled researcher,” Sirius said, smoothly ignoring Snape’s snort of disbelief. “What area?”

“My main focus right now is Non-Abelian First Order Arithmetic Transformations,” Hermione said. That had been her thesis topic back (forward) in the day.

“I actually took Arithmency at Hogwarts,” Sirius said, but it didn’t sound like he was trying to brag, more that he was looking for common ground. “I’ve heard of Abelian First Order Transformations, but what are Non-Abelian transformation?”

“They’re the set of all First Order Transformations that aren’t Abelian, obviously,” Snape said scathingly.

“It was my understanding that all First Order Transformations were Abelian by definition,” Sirius said to Snape, cooly, but under the warning eye of Aberforth he didn’t say anything further.

“Obviously they’re not,” Professor Snape said, but turned back to his beer instead of saying anything more on the subject.

“Traditionally, they are,” Hermione said, suppressing a smirk at Professor Snape’s non-expression. “But recently it’s been discovered— well, I discovered— that it’s possible to have a Non-Abelian Transformation that still creates a new, valid charm. Therefore it must be a First Order Transformation, even if it behaves as a Second Order Transformation.”

“But don’t all Transformations on charms have to be reversible? How can you have a charms group— er, ring— where the components don’t commute?”

“That’s a very good question, and that’s why no one’s ever looked at Non-Abelian Transformations as applied to charms before. The thinking was always that they’re physically impossible for charms, because the way we cast charms is so different than the way we cast transfigurations,” Hermione explained, always excited to talk about her thesis topic. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Professor Snape paying close attention to their conversation. “Do you remember the story of the wizard Baruffio? Who messed up while casting the Levitation charm and summoned a buffalo?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Sirius said. “I think we learned about him in charms class.”

“It’s a common fable. But think about what he did. He mis-pronounced a common charm, and created a completely different effect. So what was the spell he cast at the end? Was it still a charm?”

“No, if it summoned a buffalo, it must have been a conjuration,” Sirius said, brow furrowed in thought.

“You would think, right? Even just there, we have a minor Transformation on an element of the group that kicks you out of the group entirely. But that’s a well-understood effect, and isn’t anything special. Reversing the transformation brings back the original spell, so that transformation is Abelian. The really interesting thing comes when you look at the final spell created by the mistake. What would happen if you cast it, right now?”

“I’d end up with a buffalo on my chest?” Sirius guessed in amusement.

“Sometimes! Or sometimes you’d set something on fire, or sometimes you’d successfully cast the Levitation charm, albeit weaker.”

“Wait, what? Is that… a Transformation? Um, going between the effects?” Sirius was starting to look hopelessly lost.

“That’s the thing, consider again the original Transformation made. Now we know that it can have multiple different destinations, so it’s not a one-to-one transformation. This too is a well-known effect, that occasionally magic is chaotic rather than deterministic. But the real question becomes, what if you’re at one of those final states? Could you then move to a different one of those final states on purpose? Is there a Transformation you could do on one final state that would take you to a different one?”

“But they’re all the same mispronunciation,” Sirius said hesitantly. “What is there to change?”

“Here’s where it gets complicated,” Hermione said happily, ignoring Sirius’ expression of woe. “You know the difference between First Order and Second Order spells?”

“Um— First Order spells are tied to an incantation,” Sirius stammered out. “They’re charms, but Second Order are transfigurations?”

“Right, right, so for First Order spells even when they’re cast silently you still have to think the incantation. Whereas Second Order spells don’t have that requirement. So traditionally all charms are First Order spells and transfigurations are Second Order, like you said. Second Order spells can’t be described using a ring structure, etcetera etcetera. So now take the group structure of Second Order spells and apply it to this weird mispronounced charm. And it works! The theory is rigorous and well-describes the charm, and can even make predictions about what the effect will be depending on what you put into the casting. And that’s just one example. It’s true for any charm that you can make a Transformation with the resulting state outside the ring. And you’re not confined to First Order effects, either! You can apply the full principles of Second Order spells instead!”

“So it’s— what does that mean?” Sirius asked helplessly.

Snape cut in with a withering tone. “It means that for some charms you can vary the result even if you keep the incantation the same. Imagine casting Avis, but instead of summoning birds you unlock a door.” He looked begrudgingly impressed.

“Some charms? Most charms!” Hermione said, pleased with herself.

“That’s…” Sirius stared at her, mouth hanging open. “That seems like a really big deal,” he said, faintly.

Hermione coughed. “Well… It is, yes, that I’ve set an analytical framework for it,” she hedged. “But in truth many people cast this way instinctively, in small ways. It’s always been something that was considered within the inherent flexibility of magic. But this proves that it isn’t! It’s deliberate miscast on the part of the caster with enormous possibility!”

“So I don’t have to retake charms class then,” Sirius said, his teasing smile back in full force.

Hermione laughed. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think this will matter to anyone expect charms researchers,” she admitted. “Still, I look forward to the debates once my papers come out. Perhaps someone else will find an interesting practical use for it!”

“It sounds like you have this mastery business well in hand,” Sirius said, and he really did have an amazing smile, even after ten years in Azkaban.

“I hope so,” Hermione said, smiling back.

Professor Snape lit another cigarette.

“Oh shit, I have to go,” Sirius said, looking at his watch in dismay. “It was really nice talking to you, Ophelia. Maybe we can meet up again some time? And you can teach me more about charms.” He grinned at her.

“I’d love to,” Hermione said, pleased that she’d made friends with Sirius.

“Maybe over drinks? Fuck, I really have to go. I’ll owl you, alright? Ophelia Oleander?”

“That should reach me,” Hermione nodded. She’d set a redirect up with the owl post to send all of Ophelia’s mail to her flat. Then there was another redirect tied to her flat which would bring her mail to Hermione, at Hogwarts. A little silly, but this way no one at the post office would realise that Ophelia and Hermione were the same person. Just in case.

“I’ll see you later,” Sirius said, and set a galleon on the bar and then left. He’d paid for her drink, Hermione noticed.

Aberforth took Sirius’ empty cup with a sigh. “Can’t believe he drinks this garbage,” he muttered.

“What were you doing with Black?” Professor Snape said suspiciously, once Sirius had left.

“I ran into him here,” Hermione defended herself. “Could I get another?”

Aberforth pushed another glass towards her, and put out another beer for Snape as well, when he nodded.

“That desperate to get out that you came here to drink alone on a Saturday afternoon?” Professor Snape said scathingly.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Hermione pointed out, smiling when he scowled at her.

“I came here to talk to Aberforth,” he defended himself. “Until I was rudely attacked by that savage.”

“I believe you started that fight,” Hermione said.

Professor Snape shrugged. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to bait Sirius Black,” he said, almost wistfully. The tiniest hint of a smile was on his face.

“And if we’re lucky, you’ll be able to bait him for decades to come.”

Professor Snape frowned, stabbing his cigarette into the ash tray. “Lucky,” he repeated, staring off into the distance. “Or smart. And if I had to choose one or the other, I’d choose being smart every time.” He pulled out another cigarette, lighting it with the tip of his wand.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him. “You know those cause lung cancer,” she said.

“What the fuck do I care about lung cancer?” he muttered, then glanced over at her awkwardly. “I prefer you the other way,” he said, giving her a scowl.

Hermione ignored him. He was on his fourth beer.

“What was it you wanted to talk about, lad?” Aberforth asked Snape, suspicious but reluctantly curious.

Snape glanced over at her with narrowed eyes, but she made no move to leave. “It’s about Albus,” he finally said, voice low even though there was no one else in the bar and at this distance Hermione would likely hear them even if they whispered.

Aberforth carefully put the glass down. “And why would you think I’d want to talk about him?” he said bitterly.

“Surely you’ve noticed?” Snape insisted.

 _Noticed what?_ Hermione wanted to ask, but she was sure Snape wouldn’t tell her anything.

“Albus lives life his own way,” Aberforth finally settled on, picking the glass back up as if the discussion were over.

But Snape kept pressing. “Have there been any shifts in his behaviour in the past few months? Perhaps earlier this year?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Aberforth finally said, voice tight. “I haven’t seen him recently.”

“And is that not unusual?” Snape insisted.

“No. It isn’t,” Aberforth said, and this time it was clear the conversation was over.

Snape leaned back on his stool, clearly unhappy with how that had gone.

Hermione was dying to question him, but there was a warning glint in his eye that promised trouble if she did. Instead, she asked “Do you want me to heal your face?”

“I didn’t realise charms experimentalists trained as healers as well,” Snape said snidely, not looking at her.

“You should know very well that I have enough healing knowledge to fix a fucking bruise,” Hermione said, angry at him for refusing to just accept that she might know something for once, and angry at herself for taking it so personally that he didn’t.

“Should I? All I recall is a series of easily preventable disasters which almost resulted in the death of everything you held dear,” Severus Snape said into his beer.

Hermione stood up abruptly, shoving her stool back with a loud scrape in the process. She didn’t look over at him. She met Aberforth’s gaze steadily, ignoring his obvious curiosity. She dropped a few coins on the bar, and nodded over at the empty glasses piling up in front of Snape. “Keep the change,” she added.

Aberforth nodded slowly at her, eyebrows raised.

With a last self-indulgent glare at Snape’s back, she left. She had better things to do anyway then sit around and watch Severus Snape smoke and drink himself to death.

* * *

Hermione spent the rest of the weekend fuming. She tried over and over to redirect her thoughts to something more productive, and yet hardly moments would go by before she remembered his stupid face and wanted to hit something.

Sunday afternoon she received a note in her dorm room. The owl was a standard school owl, sitting patiently on the windowsill.

 _9pm. Usual place._ She recognised the handwriting immediately, because how could she not? The usual place must be his office. But writing “office” would’ve immediately exposed him as a professor if anyone intercepted the note.

Hermione entertained herself for a short time inventing scenarios for the night’s meeting. Would he apologise to her? Grovel and beg for forgiveness? Perhaps he’d admit that he knew nothing and ask for her help.

Reality sunk back in, a cruel and painful mistress. He’d ask her how her research was going, and maybe ask her about Professor Dumbledore. He’d demand updates on what she was doing with the war, and then condescend to her when she told him she hadn’t destroyed a single horcrux since their last conversation. Hermione would try to defend herself, and he’d dismiss all of her concerns. She’d leave, embarrassed and angry, and he’d further cement the idea he had that she was nothing more than an overgrown child. And why wouldn’t he? It’d been ages since she’d caught Pettigrew, and all she’d done was bask in the glory of that one minor success.

“I need to stop sitting around,” Hermione decided, staring around her dorm room in dismay. The rest of the girls were out enjoying their Sunday, while Hermione had been busy pouting and writing papers and generally engaged in the sorts of activities that were intellectually challenging but would in no way shape the future. She needed to start thinking less like Hermione Granger, and more like Harry Potter. What would Harry Potter do, she mused, as she carefully put away and hid her things. Not the child, but the adult that Harry had become. What would he do in this situation, flung twenty years into a past where so many things weren’t how she remembered them?

That was how Hermione found herself breaking into Quirrell’s quarters while everyone else enjoyed Sunday dinner.

She’d spent a few hours spelling her clothing so that she wouldn’t be seen (longer-lasting than spelling yourself, although it was more difficult), and then as soon as Quirrell had left his rooms, she’d made a beeline for the courtyard outside.

She was lucky that Quirrell had the same quarters Umbridge had in fifth year, because it meant she already had a good idea of where the window was. She thought it was Fred and George who’d showed her, in preparation of some prank, but she couldn’t remember any details. It didn’t matter. If she was wrong, then she’d break into a random room and could just leave again. Inconvenient but probably not dangerous.

She scaled the wall effortlessly (climbing was easy when you were weightless) and peered in through the window. No one there. It was definitely a professor’s living space. The window resisted being opened, but the wards on it weren’t attached to the Hogwarts wards and were easily overpowered. Not subtle, but she wasn’t a curse-breaker. She thought she recognised the ward that had been used, so she’d recast it before she left.

The room was fairly bare bones. Small seating area, bookshelf filled with books, door leading off to a separate bedroom space. The books were mostly defence-related. Quirrell’s rooms then.

She looked through the papers on the desk, not confident enough to touch anything. All grading, no personal correspondence. Wait, what was this? There was some sort of secret compartment in the desk that she couldn’t open. It was clearly spelled, but it looked like it was tied to a specific person. Quirrell?

Hermione weighed her options. If she broke it, she wouldn’t be able to put it back and Quirrell would definitely know that someone had broken in. But how risky was that? Surely he wouldn’t suspect her, a first-year. But he might suspect Professor Snape… And thinking of Professor Snape’s face when she told him she’d left traces of her break-in made her want to wither away and die.

She paced the room, trying to think of something. Her eyes were drawn to the bathroom door, open just a crack. Reluctantly, not at all liking where her thoughts were headed, she entered the room. There, a dirty laundry basket. Half full, she was disappointed to see. That meant she had to actually try her idea. She plunged her hand in, leafing around. Robes wouldn’t work. Socks were better but still not quite… Ah. Underwear. Yes, that would work.She stared at the ceiling as she carried Quirrell’s dirty underwear over to his desk and rubbed it all over the secret drawer. It took painfully long, but finally the drawer decided it’d had enough and clicked open.

Hermione was rewarded with a shiny, red rock. She sucked in a breath and pulled her hand away hurriedly. The stone itself was well-warded. There was no way she’d be able to take it without immediately alerting Quirrell. Tripwire wards were incredibly useful, but you could really only have one or two going at a time, otherwise you couldn’t be sure you’d be alerted properly if they were tripped. They tended to interfere with each other.

They were also very difficult to break without tripping them, even for a curse-breaker. And Hermione was no curse-breaker.

But this was the Philosopher’s Stone! Eternal life! Voldemort’s resurrection, just sitting in Quirrell’s desk!

Wait a second. If Quirrell already had the stone, why was he still at Hogwarts? And why leave it in his desk, where the Headmaster could find if he searched the room?

Suspicious, Hermione cast a few more detection spells. Very well warded, but… there it was. Not a trace of magic from the stone itself. A decoy, then. She used Quirrell’s underwear to close the drawer back up and quickly returned it to the laundry basket.

Silently, she moved into the bedroom.

The bed was meticulously made. The closet was full of neatly-pressed robes. There was a small dresser. And then there was the lizard.

He was sleeping on a rock on top of the dresser. There was food and water, and when Hermione got closer she saw tiny scratches in the wood. Made by the lizard climbing up and down?

She couldn’t remember anything about Quirrell having a pet lizard, especially not one as large as this one. But that didn’t mean anything.

However, she did vaguely remember that Voldemort had occasionally possessed snakes…

Hermione raised her wand.

The lizard opened its eyes. Bright, red eyes.

At 9pm exactly, Hermione burst into Professor Snape’s office and paused only to ward the door before exclaiming: “Voldemort’s a lizard!”

She took great pleasure from the look on Snape’s face.


	4. Doesn't Severus Get a Say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is at this point that I would like to remind you all of the "crack treated seriously" tag.

Severus Snape died at the age of 38, bleeding out alone in a dirty shack. He woke up three months later and seven years earlier, in his quarters at Hogwarts as if the second war had never happened.

It hadn’t. He was in the past.

He spent the summer gathering information.

First: what did he remember? He took detailed notes, memorised them, and burned them all.

Next: what was different from what he remembered? At first, nothing. But then Quirrell arrived at Hogwarts without his turban, Albus was drinking in the middle of the day, and Hermione Granger didn’t care about showing off.

Things devolved further from there. Hermione Granger, in actuality a thirty-something time traveler and charms expert, caught and turned in Peter Pettigrew. Sirius Black was freed from Azkaban. The Gryffindor Quidditch team failed to find a talented seeker and started losing games.

And Severus Snape had no idea what to do. He was terrified of the magic that brought him back, if that was even what had happened. Could this not be his purgatory, where he was doomed to repeat his failings over and over in new and interesting ways? Or a fever dream, the last seconds of his life stretching into an eternity due to the release of chemicals in his brain?

In his dreams, he died over and over again. Awake, he could feel the ghost of pain along his neck, the dark terror that consumed his moments of idleness. Every spare moment he had was used to its full extent. He dared not let a single second slip away inefficiently— what time did he have left? How quickly the years had slipped away before, vanishing into the void of memory. What choice did he have now but to devote himself, fully and completely, to that which had killed him?

At 9pm precisely on the first Sunday in November, Hermione Granger burst into his office.

“Voldemort’s a lizard!” she panted, warding the door behind her.

Severus Snape put down his quill, inked in blood red, the colour of failed homework. He looked at her, patiently waiting. She looked like any other eleven-year-old, something he’d despised at first. He’d ached for some indication of her true nature, but in the weeks since their last discussion her behaviour had been nothing more than the usual behaviour of an anti-social, over-intelligent child.

But then he’d met her as Ophelia, so similar to the woman he’d seen at his death. Her face was that of the reaper, her eyes flashed with the memory and promise of his death.

“Is he?” Severus asked lightly.

Granger glared at him, anger and righteousness burning hot inside her as it always did. “Yes! That’s why he’s not Quirrell— he’s been hiding as Quirrell’s pet lizard.”

Severus turned the idea over in his mind. Strange, but not unprecedented. “Why come to Hogwarts at all?” he mused to himself, but Granger took it as disbelief of her statement.

“I don’t know!” she said, already upset. “But it’s definitely him!”

“Did he see you?” he asked with a sudden sinking urgency. If the Dark Lord had traveled in time as well, he must not become aware that there were other time traveler. It would destroy them.

Granger sighed petulantly. “He knows someone broke in, I think. I didn’t realise it was Voldemort until it was looking at me with its red eyes. I only stuck around long enough to verify the possession before I left.”

“Quirrell’s quarters?” Severus asked, to be sure. He took in Granger’s nod, mind already ticking away. What would the Dark Lord do? Would he move his plans forward, acting quickly now that he knew someone was on his trail? Or would he disappear? Counterattack?

“That’s not all,” Granger said. “He had a fake Philosopher’s Stone.”

“To replace the real one,” Severus mused. But why was the Dark Lord not possessing Quirrell? What had changed? The break-in at the end of July had failed, exactly as it had in the original timeline. Something must have changed.

Granger threw herself into the chair in front of his desk. He didn’t bother protesting. Gryffindors had no sense of decorum. “What’s going on with Professor Dumbledore?” she asked instead, as he knew she would after his disaster of a conversation with Aberforth yesterday.

“Have you noticed anything unusual in his behaviour?” he asked instead answering, his reason for summoning her to his office. Who else could he ask, without raising suspicion? It was strange to have so few secrets from someone he’d detested so much. What a cruel twist of fate, that the person who knew him better than anyone else in this extant world was none other than Hermione Granger.

“I’m not sure,” Granger said, but her eyes told a different story. “I didn’t know him that well originally anyway, and it’s been so long…”

“Spit it out, girl.”

She glared at him. “Will you stop? I’m thirty-three. I’m not a girl.”

“You look like one.”

“And you look like a drug addict, but I’m not going around telling people you’re addicted to heroin!” she snapped back, and then winced. So she regretted her hasty words. They didn’t bother him. He knew what he looked like.

Still. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. The girl eyed him warily, but he didn’t care because his fingers had found the cool glass of the bottle. He put it on the desk, pulling out a tumbler for himself as well.

“None for me?” she said, still picking at the same argument.

He didn’t care. “I wouldn’t offer you any even if your body weren’t eleven.”

“Twelve, actually,” she said, the heat finally gone out of her voice.

He poured himself a generous serving. Cloudy gin, the best thing for a painful Sunday evening. “Tell me your impressions of the Headmaster,” Severus commanded.

“He doesn’t seem to be taking his job very seriously,” Granger said, mouth pinched in a disapproving frown. “He was very cavalier talking to me about Pettigrew, and dismissive of Professor McGonagall. He was drinking in the middle of the day and offered me some. He also… well, he ate a bunch of cough drops. Is that normal? It seemed wrong.”

“It is not normal,” Severus agreed. The burn of the liquor soothed his throat. He hated drinking, but he needed it. If he were spying, then he would forgo without question. But now, in this time of relative peace, when the only horrors were the ones in his mind, he indulged. “The Headmaster does not act as I remember him.”

“But we can’t have changed that, could we? I just don’t see how that’s possible.” Hermione Granger, forever putting the world into the neat categories of cause and effect.

“It is unclear,” Severus said instead, wondering if his caution would ever rub off on the girl. “If he had simply traveled in time, then I would imagine he would act as he did before his death. This is something else.” As if time travel were ever simple.

Granger echoed his thoughts. “Time travel is hardly simple!” she protested, and too late he realised he’d resurrected their previous argument. “A far more likely explanation is that we’ve landed in an alternate reality where—“

“And your proof?” he asked mildly, cutting her off. Her idea had merit, but it seemed so fantastical to him. At least time-travel was real, something for which precedent existed. Dimensional travel was a myth, as far as he knew. A fascinating myth, but a myth nonetheless.

“I’ve been doing some research and it’s inconclusive,” Granger admitted grudgingly. “The only reference I’ve found to alternate dimensions relates to paradoxical time-travel, which is probably our situation. It theorises that when someone travels back to an earlier point of time and breaks causality, a new dimension is formed at the point of re-entry into the timeline. Thus a paradox is never born because there is no loop— it’s a branching path instead.”

“But it says nothing about alternate history prior to the point of re-entry.”

“No,” Granger said. “It doesn’t mean it’s impossible, but— it might mean that something else is going on. Maybe.”

That she’d conceded that much was impressive, and he gallantly refrained from rubbing it in. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples in an attempt to fend off his pre-hangover headache. “If we are willing to admit that there may be other time-travelers—“ and here he glanced up at her to see her reluctant nod— “then our next task is determining who they are.”

“Quirrell?” Granger said hesitantly. “If not Voldemort, then maybe him? But I don’t see how my accident at DoM had anything to do with—“

“Putting that aside,” Severus reminded her. “The ‘how’ is of course important, but it is not the most pressing concern at the moment. I agree with you. It seems unlikely to me that the Dark Lord traveled back in time, but he has clearly benefited from some small future knowledge, which Quirrell may have provided.”

“Who else?” Granger demanded.

Severus stared at her, waiting for her to explain.

“Who else do you think is a time-traveler?” she clarified, when it became apparent to her that he wasn’t going to respond.

Severus considered this idea carefully. Albus was out— the Albus Dumbledore he’d known in 1997 was vastly different than the one who existed today. But could other people have traveled as well? Why not? If Quirrell had, truly anything was possible. “I have no idea,” he finally settled on.

Granger didn’t like that. “What are we supposed to do if we don’t know anything?” she said, all misplaced frustration and nervous energy. The vagaries of youth never failed to astound him.

“We seek information,” he said simply. “We observe, we judge, we pry into secrets— without ever revealing that which would destroy us.”

Granger rolled her eyes. “Obviously,” she said. “Do you have any ideas that are actually useful? How about an actual plan for what we do next?”

“We should destroy the horcruxes,” Severus said immediately. “We cannot assume that they’re safe, not when there may be other time travelers out there.”

“Right, okay,” Granger said. “So there’s one in the Room of Requirement, Ravenclaw’s lost diadem. One in Lestrange’s vault, that’s Hufflepuff’s cup. The snake is one but I don’t think right now she is, since he doesn’t have her yet. There’s the diary, that’s the one Lucius Malfoy is holding. That’s four.” She stared off into the distance as she recalled. Severus was blindsided by the free flow of information. How much time had he spent begging Albus for a mere sliver of knowledge? Knowledge that Granger was now pouring onto him, watering the dry earth of his desperate uncertainties. “Then there’s Slytherin’s locket, which right now is at Grimmauld Place. I bet Sirius won’t want to go back there though, so that one might be tricky. And there’s Gaunt’s ring, I think it’s in a shack somewhere. In Little Hangleton, yes. I think Harry told me about that one, Professor Dumbledore destroyed it in the summer before our sixth year. Oh, and there’s Harry himself.” She frowned. “That one might be tricky.”

The ring. Cursed beyond belief, corrupting Albus slowly from the inside out. Severus couldn’t bear to remember the pain that ring had caused, and yet, what else could he do? “Potter will require special attention,” Severus admitted. “I believe it is wise to save him for last.”

“If all the horcruxes are destroyed except Harry, can Voldemort still be destroyed?” Granger asked thoughtfully. “Perhaps we could contain him somehow, or break the link between them…” Again she used his name so freely. Had she learned nothing from the year of the Taboo?

“I believe so. The ritual he used in 1995 did not require any horcruxes, although Potter’s status as a horcrux did strengthen the ritual. In theory the ritual could be performed even if all horcruxes save Potter were destroyed.”

“Can we capture the spirit somehow? And destroy it? Then only the Harry horcrux is left…”

“Likely not. The horcrux acts as a tie to life. The Dark Lord cannot be killed so long as he has even a single horcrux remaining.”

“We’ll have to take it out of him. Like— transfer it to another container.” There was a trace of desperation in her gaze.

“We will think on it further. We have some time before we must decide what to do.” Whether to kill him. Lily’s son, the one he’d sworn to protect. The one who must die for her murder to be avenged.

He’d spoken true, however. They had time. Handed this knowledge years early, there was the possibility that they would find an alternate solution. A happy ending for all, as it were.

“So the diadem first?” Granger said, dragging his attention back. “Since it’s in the castle?”

“How shall we destroy it?” The Sword of Gryffindor was no longer an option.

“Fiendfyre?” Granger offered. Severus was taken aback. Surely she couldn’t… No, there it was, she was looking at him hopefully.

His fingers itched at the thought of casting it. “I can,” he said simply. “I will.”

“Great, that’s settled then,” Granger said, collecting herself. “Owl me when you’re ready. We’ll go get it and destroy it and then we’ll make plans for the next one.”

Severus nodded, and watched with dark eyes as she left his office. Granger spoke of it as nothing more than an errand, as if destroying the soul of one of the most powerful wizards of all time were a menial task.

Severus knew better.

* * *

Severus decided on Friday morning, too early for anyone to be awake but late enough that even the most restless of students would have retreated to bed already.

Granger was waiting for him, nothing more than a barely-seen shimmer in the air.

Severus stayed silent as she paced in front of the wall. He drank coffee from an enchanted mug, warm and fresh and never-ending. This was the room the students had hid in during his year as Headmaster. A room of refugees from his destructive leadership.

They entered the room, and Severus was blown away by its grandeur. Even after all these years of living at Hogwarts, he still had the capacity to be amazed by its secrets. The room was seemingly endless, filled with artefacts and trinkets and lost books, piled high and deep.

“Bun?” Granger was saying inanely.

“What?” Severus said, finally looking at her now that she was visible. She looked tired. Too young to be so worn out. She was holding out a breakfast pastry for him. “Very well,” he said, and took it.

“It was smart of you to bring coffee,” Granger said wistfully. “Although I prefer tea myself.”

“Caffeine will stunt your growth,” Severus said automatically, squinting into the distance of the room. This may take longer than he’d expected, he thought in dismay.

“I don’t intend on being a child long enough to let it,” Granger said. He turned to her in surprise. “You intend to artificially age yourself?” he said, disturbed by the thought.

“Well, no,” Granger amended. “I know I have to grow naturally. I take ageing potions when I can, though. I believe the time I’m required to be myself at Hogwarts is sufficient to allow for natural growth. And when I sleep, of course. The rest of the time I’ll be older.”

“The long-term effects of ageing potions have not been thoroughly reviewed,” Severus told her. “They contain some ingredients which are suspect.”

She shook her head. “The big risks are in mental development,” she said, and she was right. “I’m already all set there, aren’t I?”

“Possibly,” Severus allowed. He finished the pastry and lit a cigarette.

“Merlin, do you smoke everywhere?” Granger said, disgusted.

“Not in class,” he told her, and blew drifting tendrils of smoke in her direction.

She waved her hands through the air, trying to clear it of smoke. “I hate cigarettes,” she informed him stiffly.

“Have you ever tried one?”

“What? No! Of course not!”

“Then how do you know you hate them?”

“Are you trying to encourage one of your students to take up smoking?” Granger asked him, awash with righteous indignation. She reminded him of Minerva at times, firm in the knowledge that her view of the world was the true one.

“Student implies I have something left to teach you,” Severus said. “You have a N.E.W.T in Potions. An O, I would imagine?” Actually she probably had two. One as Hermione Granger in the future, and one as Ophelia in this new timeline.

“Well, yes,” Granger admitted, and she smiled slightly at him. “Honestly I hate first-year classes. It’s not just learning things I already know, it’s the way they learn it. Everything is oversimplified to the point of gross inaccuracy. It’s infuriating to write answers that I know aren’t technically correct or are incomplete, simply because that’s what’s taught at this level.” The words spilled out of her unheeded, unrepented. How long had she been holding this in, stewing in the tedium of childhood?

“Imagine how I feel teaching it,” Severus responded drily.

“At least people treat you like an adult!” Granger exclaimed. “How much attention do you think I’d draw if I skipped some years?”

“Much. And you would still be bored, and you would still be treated as a child.” It was not unheard of for students to be far ahead of the standard curriculum, but the preference on the part of the professors was to keep students with their year and assign them extra projects or more challenging homework.

Granger deflated. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said. “I guess we better find the diadem. I think I remember where it is.” She considered the depth of the room in front of them. “Fuck.”

Severus started at hearing her swear. The chastisement was on the tip of his tongue before he could help himself. He stuffed his cigarette in his mouth instead. “After you,” he told the girl, exhaling smoke.

Granger shook her head at him, but started hesitantly into the mess. They passed all manner of treasures— mannequins covered in silks, opulent empty cages, and bits of dried animal parts. They passed a mountain of hand-written journals, and a sea of bed linens.

“I should really come back here and look around some time,” Granger said, eyes wide at the piles of books that were everywhere.

“I doubt there would be anything in here that is not already in the library,” Severus said. “The library owes much of its collection to the lost tomes of students.”

“Really?” Granger asked, fascinated. “That’s not in _Hogwarts, A History_.”

Severus had loved that book as a child. A boy like him, lost and unwanted, took great pride in attending an institution with such a historic pedigree. His mother had always feared that he wouldn’t be admitted, that he’d be forced to attend one of the day schools, but her Prince blood ran true. “Many things aren’t,” he told her. “The book was written for children.”

“Maybe they should’ve left out the long discussion of the sexual proclivities of former Headmasters then,” Granger muttered.

“Ah, you read the hundred and fifteenth edition? That was removed in the hundred and sixteenth.”

“The hundred and sixteenth edition doesn’t come out until next year,” Granger said, hiding another smile. “Oh!” she exclaimed, her attention drawn to something in front of them. “There it is!” She rushed off.

Severus followed her quickly, coffee sloshing but not spilling due to the enchantment on the cup. “Where?” he asked, embarrassingly out of breath. Physical fitness had never been his strong suit.

“Right here,” Granger said, staring at an overly bejewelled tiara in admiration. She reached for it slowly.

Severus slapped her hand down. “Stop,” he told her harshly. “You fool, it’s bewitching you.” Indeed, he could feel the bewitchment himself, scraping against his Occlumency. Tickling at his mind, demanding attention that he would not give it.

“It’s so strong,” Granger said weakly. “I’d forgotten how strong the horcruxes are.” Foolish in the extreme. The second she said the word, a twitch came from the diadem.

Severus eyed the horcrux with trepidation. It knew they were there, now. It knew they were looking for it.

“Oh my,” Granger said, eyes fluttering closed. “The things I could do…” She drifted forward unconsciously.

Severus didn’t hesitate as he pressed the lit end of his cigarette against her twelve-year-old face.

“Fuck!” Granger cried, eyes flying open as she glared at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Are you yourself again?” he asked her quietly. The burn was turning bright on her cheek.

“Yes! Jesus Christ, next time try pinching me or something.” She went to tap her wand against her face, but hesitated. “After,” she said, not looking at him as she lowered her wand. “The pain helps.”

“We’ll need an empty spot,” Severus said. “I will not cast such a dangerous fire spell in a room full of paper.”

“Wise,” Granger said. “Last time we burnt the room to a crisp.”

Severus sighed at the thought of Potter destroying yet another irreplaceable piece of Hogwarts’ history. That boy had the subtlety of a tornado. “Where, then? Anywhere on the grounds poses a risk.”

“How small can you make it?” Granger asked. “There’s a prefect bath not far from here. We could use the tub.”

Large, made of stone, many water sources easily available. “Adequate,” he decided.

“It’s not protected from ghosts, do you know any way to keep them out?”

“Don’t you?” Severus said snidely. “I thought you knew everything.”

Granger glowered at him. “Learning is a lifetime journey,” she quoted, in a much more aggressive tone than Confucius had likely used back in the day.

“I do know a ward that will suffice,” he said. “It does not have a long life-span, but it will be enough.”

“Great. So we just… pick it up?” Granger eyed the diadem again, and then rubbed the burn on her cheek. “Ow.”

Severus took off his outer robe, and carefully wrapped the diadem in it without touching it. He could feel the magic radiating off of it even through the layers of cloth. It sang to him like the moon sung to a werewolf.

“Great,” Granger said. “Don’t go crazy or I’ll have to burn you as well.” She obviously relished the thought.

They walked to the seventh floor prefects’ bathroom together. They were hidden only by Granger’s Notice-Me-Not (which was disturbingly strong). He feared to cast anything else with the horcrux humming in his arms.

The corridors were dark as they passed through them. The torches would not be lit until six. In some corridors, the moon poured over the floor and turned them ethereal, in others the darkness was almost absolute.

“Do you know the password?” Granger whispered to him when they arrived.

His mind turned rapidly. There were almost fifty passwords he had to know as a Head of House, and they were constantly changing. “The hangman’s noose,” he finally whispered. Albus had picked that password.

“Seriously? Oh.” The door swung open. The bath was empty, unsurprising at this hour. Severus resolutely pushed away the thought of what someone would think if they saw him and a first-year girl entering a private bathroom together.

Granger locked the door behind them. No one else would be able to enter until they were done.

The empty pool was large, and deep enough to reach his neck. There was a mosaic of a forest on the wall. He preferred the mosaic in the second floor prefects’ bathroom. It had a dragon in it.

Severus emptied his robe into the pool. The diadem fell to the bottom, landing a few feet away from the edge. He cast a few wards around the perimeter of the room, then returned to the pit.

He hesitated.

“Well?” Granger said impatiently.

“This is a very dangerous spell,” he warned her. “There are certain precautions you must take.”

“Okay,” she said uncertainly. “What do I need to do?”

“If the fire seems to be out of my control, do not use conjured water. Use the water from the taps. Do not cast any spells into the fire. Do not stare at the fire for too long, as it can be hazardous to your eyes. Do not touch any part of the fire. And try not to distract me.”

“Isn’t the tap water conjured?” Granger said.

Severus thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, all baths are connected to the plumbing. Bathing exclusively in conjured water can lead to strange long term effects.”

“Oh, yes, spell poisoning.” Granger remembered immediately. Spell poisoning shared many similarities with the radiation poisoning Severus had spent his youth terrified of, yet the effects could be even more random and extreme. Spell poisoning was why no one ate anything conjured or transfigured, or wore conjurations. Enchanted clothing was specially designed to not leech residue onto your skin, necessary if you wanted to keep said skin from peeling off.

“Do you understand what needs to be done if something goes wrong?”

“Turn on the taps. Is there anything else I could do?”

“Don’t let me go into the flame. And then run.”

Granger rolled her eyes, still not grasping the seriousness of what they did. Did she have no respect at all for the power that magic held, not over one’s body, but over one’s very soul? Did she not feel the tantalising draw, the yearning caused by powerful magics?

Likely not, Severus decided, turning away from Granger’s childish face. Such was the impediment of arithmency, reducing magic to nothing more than a series of equations and numbers. How could an equation capture the tingle of magic flowing through your skin? The impetuous fear, the sinful longing, the pain, the endless desire—

“Stand back,” Severs cautioned, and lifted his wand.

The magic left him so smoothly he hardly noticed it at first. It felt natural, a part of him in a way that simple charms never did. The fire lit the inside of the bath, needing no fuel other than the air it drank so greedily.

The diadem glimmered in the flames, tantalising and deadly, and Severus was not surprised at all to see the black smoke emerge from it.

 _Sssseeverussss…_ it whispered to him. _I know you…_

“Begone, fiend!” Severus exclaimed, the words feeling right on his tongue. This was more than just a moment, this was an echo of history long past, a retelling of a tale as old as humanity itself.

_I could bring you everything you dessssire and more… I offer untold power…_

Severus had been offered such before, and it was always a lie.

But Granger was inching forward, face awash in longing.

“Granger,” Severus warned, but she wasn’t listening.

She took another step forward, and Severus threw his arm out to stop her from walking into the pit. She pushed his arm aside, but he grabbed her before she could kill herself.

There was a furious shrieking from the horcrux, and Severus felt Granger shudder in his grip as the magic upon her died.

“Wow,” she said, voice broken. “I didn’t— I don’t remember it being like that.”

“It knew me,” Severus said. “But how?”

“It’s not— it’s not connected to, erm, the main soul, is it? It can’t be, right?” Granger said, effortlessly brushing off the confusion of a moment ago as well as his grip.

Severus watched the fire for a moment, waiting for the diadem to burn completely to ash. “Much is unknown about this subject,” he admitted. The depth of his ignorance chilled his heart. He exerted his will upon the fire, extinguishing it bit by bit.

Granger distracted him with another inane question. “But how could it possibly know you? It would’ve been created in the late sixties, you wouldn’t even have been at Hogwarts then!”

The fire regrouped, exploding into deadly action and greedily expanding, reaching, desperate for a taste of flesh.

Granger obediently turned the taps on, but all it did was fill the room with boiling steam.

“Fucking shit,” Severus muttered to himself, and tried once more to douse the flames. This time was more successful, and the fiendfyre disappeared back to hell.

“Oh my,” Granger said, eyeing the wreckage with despair. Both the bath and the ceiling above it were covered in a thick layer of soot.

“You were a Charms mistress, is that correct?” Severus asked.

“Yes, of course,” Granger replied, puzzled. “A very talented one, even.”

“Good. Have fun cleaning.” And Severus left.

* * *

That Friday evening, Severus Snape received a summons from the Headmaster, a man he’d killed not two years ago.

“Headmaster,” he said stiffly, upon entering the office. The phoenix was absent yet again. Severus was baffled at what errands Albus possibly could have given the bird to occupy him so much. Severus hadn’t seen him once all semester.

“Ah, Severus, won’t you call me Albus? After all this time, are we not friends?” Albus was standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the sunset. He was in fine form today, wearing pitch-black robes with stars that mapped out the constellations that would soon be appearing above them. They were more subtle than Severus would expect, but when Albus turned Severus saw that the surprisingly fashionable robes were in fact paired with a lurid Christmas sweater.

“Albus,” Severus acknowledged. They’d had this conversation many times.

“I’d like you show you something,” Albus said, rearranging the spiky silver contraptions on his bookshelf. Another bookshelf slid aside, to reveal the door to his quarters.

“In your rooms?” Severus asked doubtfully, but followed him anyway.

“The protections, my good man,” Albus confided in him. “Not something to leave out for anyone to see, hmm?” Indeed, on a large table set up in the middle of Albus’ private study, there was a scale model of the secret rooms beneath the third-floor corridor. A black fog obscured all details of the traps.

“You’ve taken my advice then?” Severus asked, surprised. At the end of the summer, exactly as he’d done the first time, he’d cautioned Albus against creating an obstacle course. Wouldn’t it be more effective to have traps that couldn’t be overcome by a determined child, he’d argued.

Albus had hemmed and hawed, but had listened seriously to Severus’ objections, which is more than he’d done the first time.

“Indeed I have,” Albus said. “As you may recall, my original intent was to lure Tom into a false sense of complacency. But then I thought to myself, is that truly the best use of this opportunity? At the end of the corridor, we have the perfect bait. An opportunity that Tom could not bear to pass up. There are six chambers leading up to the final room. Why waste those on trivialities in order to incur a slight advantage in the end game? And so I have redesigned them.” With a flourish, he cleared the fog hiding the corridor, and the rooms came into view.

“Oh fuck,” Severus said, tamping down the urge to vomit. “Were the dolls necessary?”

“How else would I convey the full sense of what the trap entails?” Albus said. “See here, it would be impossible to grasp the full danger of my modified Devil’s Snare if not for the figurine.” The figurine impaled on a viney tentacle.

“It’s rather graphic,” Severus pointed out, fascinated now that the initial horror had passed. “But what is this room?” The entire chamber was a blinding white, no doors visible from within.

“Ah, that is one of my favourites. Sensory deprivation, you see. A person enters the room, but sees no door. In fact, there is a door, but not one hidden by magic. Instead, it’s behind the plaster. The corridor behind is filled with sand, so that one may not simply look for the hollow wall. Meanwhile, there is a silencing spell over the room. See that figure? He’s gone mad from the lack of sensory input.”

“Albus, is that a child?” Severus asked, disturbed.

“Yes yes, I wanted a reminder not to let children into the Underground Corridor.”

“You’d think the blood seal would be enough,” Severus said faintly.

“The blood seal is especially ingenious,” Albus said proudly. “It is a modification of a favourite ward of Tom’s. Rather than requiring blood to admit entry, it requires excrement.”

“Albus, how exactly are you supposed to check on the stone periodically with all this in place?”

“Put simply, I’m not,” Albus said, not bothered by Severus’ distress. He had a calm smile on his face. “That would defeat the purpose, yes? If there were some way to bypass the protections? I can only presume that as long as Quirrell remains in the castle, then he has not retrieved the stone.”

“So you know,” Severus said, taken aback. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Albus looked puzzled. “Why would I need to? Did you not know as well?”

“Well— yes,” Severus admitted. “But it disturbs me that you do not trust me with this sort of information,” he added stiffly.

Albus took his hand gently. “Severus,” he said, blue eyes like a cloudless day staring into Severus’ own. “Of course I trust you,” he said. “Are you not here? In my private quarters? I have not invited Septima into my home, have I?”

“I don’t know, have you?” Severus asked.

Albus shook his head. “I have not,” he said. “This I promise you.” He gave Severus’ hands a squeeze before dropping them. “Come, look at the other traps and tell me what you think.”

Severus sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Alright, let’s see. Are these all in place already?” He gave the model on a table a critical eye.

“Yes, some were quite tricky,” Albus said, frowning over his work. “And yet I still feel there is something missing.”

“What’s this one?” Severus asked, pointing to the third chamber, where a figurine’s eyes had exploded.

“Ah yes, the vacuum chamber,” Albus said. “I am particularly proud of that bit of charms work.”

“How might the vacuum be navigated?” Severus asked, leaning down to get a closer look. “Wouldn’t the Bubblehead charm be sufficient?”

“The Bubblehead charm pops when the pressure outside the bubble is less than the pressure inside the bubble. It was designed for the reverse, as it were.”

“The charm would need to be modified then,” Severus determined.

“Yes, that is correct. And quite quickly, too— the vacuum is limitless. As soon as the door opens, it will start sucking the air out of the adjoining corridors.”

“Nice touch,” Severus grudgingly admitted. “Where does the air go?”

“Ah, another wonderful idea of mine— the air goes into this chamber here.”

“The one with the flames?”

“The fire tornado, yes,” Albus confirmed.

“Hmm,” Severus considered the model thoughtfully. “Change the temperature drastically in every room. Have one chamber unbearably hot, the next freezing cold, etcetera. And play with the humidity as well. The more uncomfortable he is, the more time he’ll spend in every room.”

“Fantastic,” Albus said, and hurriedly scribbled something onto a notepad. “You are ever a font of fascinating ideas, my dear.”

“You do realise that it will be Quirrell who journeys through these chambers, not the Dark Lord himself, correct?”

Albus waved his hand dismissively. “I have no doubt Tom will be unable to resist accompanying the man,” he said. “He has never trusted his followers to operate independently.”

“He might start after this,” Severus admitted. “This is horrendous.”

“Thank you,” Albus said, preening with the compliment. “You will let me know if there are any additions you think of, won’t you? Ideally additions that do not require me entering the chambers myself.”

“Yes, of course,” Severus confirmed. He had some possible ideas but he would want to do some research first.

“Excellent. Care for a drink?”

“As you wish,” Severus said amicably. Thinking about torture methods had put him in a good mood.

Albus brought him into the next chamber, a large private sitting room with a window taking up an entire wall. The view took Severus’ breath away, as he saw the gentle rolling hills of the grounds bathed in the warmth of the setting sun. The light shined off of the lake, filling it with fire.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Albus asked, retrieving a bottle from the cabinet. “Gin? From Estonia.” He wiggled the bottle enticingly.

“That’s my favourite,” Severus said stupidly, still drinking in the view from the window.

“I know,” Albus said simply, and poured Severus a tumbler. He poured himself a drink as well, and then set the glasses down on the small table between the armchairs. “Sit,” he gestured, as he sat down himself.

Severus sat. The chair was sinfully comfortable, and the gin burned his tongue in the best way.

“Tell me, Severus, how is the semester finding you?” Albus asked, adjusting his chair so that he could reach the side table more easily. He needed his chair so close his knees were almost touching Severus’. Was his back hurting?

Severus leaned back, crossing his ankle over his knee. “Rather well, I should think,” he responded, the drink and friendly atmosphere loosening his tongue. “As well as any semester where I have to teach children goes.”

“And your thoughts on the students?”

“You mean Harry Potter,” Severus snorted. “He’s a quiet boy,” he said. “I think likely not well treated at home.” He knew that for a fact, actually.

Albus nodded gravely. “Such a tragedy, that his guardians should mistreat him so.”

“Will you report them?” Severus asked curiously. Albus never had the first time, even when the depths of the mistreatment had been revealed.

Albus shook his head. “I will leave that decision in the boy’s hands,” he said simply. “I believe Sirius Black will take guardianship now, so it seems the matter is settled without my need to get involved.”

“So Black will raise the boy,” Severus said with a grimace.

Albus laughed. “Still harbouring a grudge? The man spent ten years in prison, Severus. Surely he’s paid for his crimes by now.”

“Not even death would balance the weight of his sins.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Albus said, a knowing glint in his eye. “I have it on good authority that death balances many things indeed.”

“If you say so,” Severus said, unwilling the break the congenial atmosphere with an argument. There was something inherently peaceful about sitting with a friend and a drink, watching the sun set across the lake.

“Another drink?” Albus asked, holding the bottle.

“If you insist,” Severus agreed congenially. He watched in amusement as Albus topped up both of their glasses, from different bottles. Had they ever spent time like this before?

Albus took a long sip.

“What are you drinking?” Severus asked curiously.

“Coffee liqueur,” Albus said absently.

“Mixed with?”

“Why ever would I mix it with anything?” Albus asked, eyes twinkling.

“Ah.” Severus had nothing polite to say to that.

“I can sense your disapproval, but have you tried it?”

“No,” Severus admitted.

“Then how can you disapprove? Here, have a taste.” Albus handed his glass over.

Severus took a hesitant sip. “Simply horrid,” he proclaimed, and Albus laughed.

“Is yours truly much better?” Albus teased.

“See for yourself,” Severus said, handing his own glass over.

Albus tried it obligingly. “I say, that’s rather good,” he said, to Severus’ amusement. “I’d always wondered why you insisted on Estonian gin rather than the traditional Azerbaijanian.” He took another thoughtful sip, then handed the glass back to Severus.

“There’s a certain depth of flavour that you can’t find anywhere else,” Severus mused.

“It is quite pungent. What is it, exactly?”

“This analogy may be lost on you, but it tastes exactly as gasoline smells.”

“Is that for cars?” Albus asked curiously. “Some sort of fuel?”

“Yes, exactly,” Severus replied, and they slipped into a congenial silence.

After a while, Albus said: “Tell me, Severus: if you weren’t teaching here, what would you be doing?”

“I’d be in prison,” Severus replied promptly.

“And if not that? If you had never been involved in the war, but had been free to live your own life?” Albus was looking directly at him, but Severus stared out the window instead, unable to meet the older man’s eyes.

“When I was a child…” Severus hesitated. He took another sip. The alcohol was strong, and his mind held the gentle fog of the recently inebriated. “I wanted to be a dragon handler.”

“Did you really?” Albus asked, leaning forward. “How fascinating. What happened?”

“Life, I suppose. Many of my classmates mocked me for my interest, saying that being interested in dragons was for muggles. And of course, I excelled at potions. In the end, it was obvious to me which would be more useful.”

“And was it?”

“Was what?” Severus asked, taken aback.

“Was potions more useful?”

Severus stared at him, mouth hanging open. “I have no idea,” he said finally, voice hoarse. The question felt like an electric shock, like his world had closed up around him only to suddenly explode, sending him flying outwards in a million different broken pieces. Or was that the gin? Albus had been generously refilling his glass. How many had he had now?

“Chocolate, Severus?” Albus asked, a small plate of chocolates appearing from somewhere. “Dark, per your preference. With a hint of ginseng for a culinary twist.”

“I suppose so,” Severus said, accepting the chocolate hesitantly. Albus had a strangely intent look on his face. Except being here, in this room, meant that Albus could be none other than Albus Dumbledore himself. It would have been impossible for an impersonator to open his private quarters. And Albus wouldn’t poison him, right? …right? “They’re lovely,” Severus managed. It had a peculiar taste, but that was certainly the ginseng. He tasted no poison, although there were numerous poisons that were undetectable without magic.

“We should spend more time together,” Albus said wistfully, although his gaze was still locked on Severus’ face.

“Doing what?” Severus asked, forcing himself to meet Albus’ eyes. The intensity of his expression had Severus hastily Occluding, but there was no magic involved in this. Was Albus trying to intimidate him? Had he done something wrong?

“Talking. Drinking. Having dinner.”

“We have dinner together every day,” Severus pointed out. Did Albus think he required more supervision? What could he have done to annoy him? Unless… had Albus disapproved of his talking to Aberforth?

“Without the others,” Albus clarified. “Just the two of us. If only I had the time! The hours we could spend together, simply enjoying each other’s presence…”

“I am always at your disposal,” Severus said uneasily. Were there some duties Albus had given him that he’d been neglecting? He didn’t think so, but all this time-travel business had been distracting him from giving his full attention to his usual professorial responsibilities.

“Would that it were true,” Albus sighed. “Do you enjoy being a professor, Severus? Would you not rather spend your time solely on research? What is it that keeps us here, at Hogwarts, when there’s a whole world just waiting for us to explore?”

“Sir, you know my priority is to keep the boy safe,” Severus said, and this time he felt sure that he was giving the right answer to this impromptu test.

Albus shook his head. “Always so proper,” he said in disappointment. “Clearly you haven’t had enough to drink.”

“I’ve had plenty,” Severus said, because his head was spinning and it was difficult to put one thought in front of the other.

“And yet not enough for my purposes, apparently,” Albus muttered. “Oh Severus, have you ever done anything fun in your life? Could you not loosen up a little, just for me? Just for tonight?”

“Headmaster, the Dark Lord is in this very castle,” Severus said. Albus was testing his resolve, and he would not fail him.

“I know one place he isn’t,” Albus said slyly, and gestured at a door in the back of the room. It opened, revealing a glimpse of the bedroom behind.

“I suspect he is in Quirrell’s quarters,” Severus confirmed. “Possibly possessing an animal.”

Albus sighed, and leaned back in his chair. The intensity in his gaze vanished, to Severus’ relief. “Curious that he should not possess Quirinus himself,” he commented.

“I have read that it is unpleasant to possess a human being for such a length of time.”

“Imagine the view when Quirinus used the toilet.”

Severus very carefully did not imagine any such thing. “Indeed, many unpleasantly intimate moments would be shared.”

“Sex is of course out of the question.”

“Well, I suppose—“

“And consider the trauma of masturbating in full view of Voldemort!” But Albus had an amused smile on his face.

“I do not believe I can comment on that,” Severus said diplomatically. He had long since lost the plot of this conversation. He’d never known Albus to be vulgar in the previous timeline, but sadly it was not uncommon nowadays. It was as if he’d lost all sense of propriety.

Speaking of propriety… “Albus, I should return to my quarters,” Severus said stiffly, trying to keep his head from spinning off his neck.

“Ah, Severus, so soon?” Albus said, mirth falling off his face, replaced by a serene thoughtfulness that gave Severus chills.

“Yes.”

“You’ve had rather a lot to drink, shall I escort you?”

“You’ve had just as much to drink as I have!”

“I merely wish to assist you in avoiding any… bad decisions,” Albus said, eyes roaming up and down Severus’ body.

Severus stilled. Could Albus be implying… “After all this time?” he whispered, voice broken. “You would still think that I might serve the Dark Lord?”

Albus heaved a sigh and tossed the bottle of alcohol back to the shelf, where it landed perfectly without breaking anything. “Severus, no, I do not think so,” he clarified wearily. “In fact, I suspect that you have no idea at all what I’m thinking.”

“Possibly.”

“Most certainly. Go to bed, Severus, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Severus glanced out the window once more. The sun had set, leaving a sky full of twinkling stars in its wake. Eons existed spread out before him, endless possibilities and worlds beyond human comprehension. The dreams of generations twisted in and out of existence, flowing with the cycle of death and life and death again that humanity was endlessly trapped in, endlessly torn apart by. What more could be said this evening, between two old friends who had such a grand history between them? Between whom stood war and hate and love so twisted as to be unrecognisable. Who was to say what was true anymore, in this mad world that Severus found himself in? The rulebook by which he’d always so carefully lived his life had been thrown out the window, thrown to the wind by an unknowable magical accident. What was left for him in this strange place, this realm of madness, this dark void of existence?

Perhaps nothing more than drinks with friends. “Good night, Albus.”


	5. We Are All Sinners Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, everyone :)
> 
> For those of you who have read The Carriage Held, you will likely see some similar themes in this chapter. I guess I just can't help myself.

Hermione decided not to wait until after classes. She went to Snape’s office first thing in the morning, before breakfast even, and knocked furiously on the door.

Then she waited.

Around ten minutes later, Professor Snape came power-walking down the corridor. He came to an abrupt stop in front of his door, his boots utterly silent on the stone floor.

“And what, precisely, are you doing bothering me at this hour?” he asked in his usual scathing tone.

“I have a question about the last homework assignment, professor,” Hermione said, adding a childish pout to her face. “I just can’t understand the difference between moonstone powder and amethyst powder.”

Wearily, Professor Snape unlocked his office door. “Get inside,” he commanded, and then practically slammed the door shut behind them. “What,” he repeated, throwing himself into his desk chair.

Hermione sat down primly across from him. “I’m fucking tired of this,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Professor Snape looked at her blankly. “Of gemstone powders?” He couldn’t help but agree with her.

“No! Of there being a Dark Lord running around the school, and us just sitting here doing nothing when we’re probably the best people to go after him!”

Professor Snape narrowed his eyes at her. “And your discontent is my problem how?”

“Look, as much as we hate it, we both know we’ll be more effective if we work together. Let’s finish Quirrell off and just get it over with. All this sitting around is pointless. And he’s just as terrible a teacher now as he was before.”

Professor Snape absently stroked his neck. He didn’t even seem to be aware he was doing it. “As much as I dislike your reasoning, your desire isn’t incomprehensible. And there are certain advantages… Confronting Quirrell may even give us a chance to question him about this whole situation.”

“Yes! That would be perfect. Two birds, whatever.”

“What do you propose, then? Catching him will hardly be a simple matter. He may be capable of more than we remember, if he truly has future knowledge. He will likely have taken steps to cover his tracks, and… may be more credible than a twelve-year-old muggleborn and a former Death Eater.” Professor Snape said the last part with clear discomfort. Hermione wondered what it might have cost him to admit such a thing. He continued, adding “And if Quirrell can get Lucius Malfoy on his side, then the Headmaster may not be enough to save us.”

“Why don’t we just go in and get to the stone first, and then grab him when he comes in? That way we’ll have him red-handed, and even Malfoy can’t complain about that.”

Professor Snape, bizarrely, turned pale at the thought. “That will not be possible.”

“Why not?” Hermione demanded. “The protections were fairly straightforward last time.”

“Last time the Headmaster intended it as nothing more than a misdirection, as he did not wish to introduce anything truly dangerous into a school full of students. This time… he has not been so circumspect.”

“So what? The protections are more challenging this time? How bad could they possibly be?”

Professor Snape told her.

“That’s pretty bad,” Hermione admitted faintly. “Okay, well… What else does Quirrell want? Maybe we can lure him out some other way, force him to play his hand.”

“I will think further on this matter,” Professor Snape said, and that was that.

“Really? That’s it? You’ll think about it?” Hermione said sourly. “Will you at least keep me in the loop this time?”

“Like you kept me in the loop?” Professor Snape snapped back, but then frowned. “I’ve already agreed to work with you,” he said wearily. “I don’t like it, but even I can recognise that it is to our mutual benefit to set aside our animosity. For the time being, at least. I said I will think further on this matter, and I will. After I’ve had some coffee.”

Hermione felt appropriately chagrined, but she couldn’t help but pause as she left. “Coffee will stunt your growth, you know.”

* * *

Severus Snape woke up like a mummy rising from a tomb. He’d been asleep for five hours.

The bell that indicated that someone was at his office door was ringing.

“Fuck,” Severus said groggily, and threw the bell out the window. The house elves would return it later. He glanced at his watch. It was almost breakfast. He should’ve been up already anyway, not that that did anything to lessen his ire towards whomever had woken him.

He lit up his first cigarette of the day before he’d even gotten dressed. He’d long since decided it was better this way, since then his teaching robes wouldn’t smell of smoke. He could only imagine the looks on the tiny snots’ faces when they realised their most feared professor smoked muggle cigarettes.

The cigarette did more to wake him than the ice cold shower, but the shower certainly didn’t hurt. He toweled off, teeth chattering, already worked up to a nice simmer of rage. It boded well for whatever poor idiot had gotten him out of bed at this hour.

His morning routine had long since been perfected by the banality of life in a children’s boarding school. What use was there for innovation? Why mess with the gleaming iron bars that had successfully imprisoned him for so long?

The imbecile at his office door was Hermione Granger, his least favourite person in the world. Still, he was a Slytherin. He knew how to work with people he disliked for personal gain, and she raised some good points. He would feel much better once Quirrell was dealt with.

Breakfast. Coffee. Dry toast. The same things he ate every morning, trapped in the endless drudgery of an unfulfilling life.

“Severus, wouldn’t you like some jam?” Minerva asked him, as she so often did.

“No.”

“Butter?”

“No.”

“Marmalade, then,” she said, and passed him the dish, inordinately pleased with herself.

Severus did take some marmalade, but not because he wanted to. In fact, he took the rest of the marmalade, and passed the empty dish to Quirrell.

“Oh,” Quirrell said in disappointment. He tried to scrape a few remnants off, but Severus had made good work of it. “Really, Severus?” he asked despairingly, as Severus bit into his pile of marmalade barely supported by quickly-softening toast.

“What can I say, I have a sweet tooth,” Severus said in a deadpan.

Quirrell deflated. “Must we do this every morning?”

“Do what?” Severus asked, turning back to his breakfast in obvious disdain.

“Really now, we’ve worked together for years. Must you continue to insist on this farce? You hate marmalade,” Quirrell said, voice sour with the annoyance of someone who’d had this argument countless times, and never won once. “I know it, you know it, even Minerva knows it.”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Minerva said, not looking up from the paper. “You boys sort it out amongst yourselves.”

“Why ever would you think I hate marmalade?” Severus asked, choking down the orange-flavoured goop. “I eat it every morning.”

“Only to spite me!” Quirrell exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “You never eat it if I’m not around!”

“How would you know? You’re not around then,” Severus said.

Quirrell’s eyes narrowed.

That was breakfast.

This was the staff meeting.

“I know you all have been clamouring for an explanation about why we are holding the stone in the castle,” Albus said, leaning back in his throne— erm, chair— at the head of the staff table. He tapped his fingers idly on the gilded armrest carved in the shape of a dragon. “However, in the interests of security, all I will say is this: I had a very good reason. And there is no need to worry.”

Most professors appeared skeptical of this claim.

“What is the first item on the agenda?” Albus asked Minerva.

Minerva looked down at her papers and read: “Parent complaints.”

Everyone groaned.

“Really, Severus, couldn’t you try not to traumatise the students so much?” Quirrell asked snidely.

“Minerva hasn’t even read off the complaints yet,” Severus said sourly. “There’s no reason to think they’re about me.”

“Other than the fact that they’re always about you?” Quirrell challenged. “What have you done this time? Broken into a first-year’s dorm?” There was a glint in his eye as he spoke.

“As a head of house, I have full access to all dorms,” Severus replied stiffly. “I would hardly need to break in anywhere.”

“And you make good use of that, do you?” Quirrell insinuated.

“Quirinus!” Minerva said, shocked. “You couldn’t possibly be implying what I think you are.”

“Of course not, Minerva,” Quirrell said smoothly. “After all, we never receive complaints about him from older students. Unless, of course, he has some method of suppressing them…?”

“Really, this is just pathetic,” Severus said. “I would never touch a student, and you know it.”

“Severus!” Minerva exclaimed, sensibilities reaching a breaking point. “Really, such vulgar language…”

“What are the complaints?” Severus said, trying to push along this pointless conversation. Quirrell was looking altogether too smug.

“Ah, here’s one that’s not about you!” Minerva said, rifling through the parchment. “Someone is complaining that the food we serve here is too unhealthy, and that we should limit the amount of sweets we make available to the children.”

“Limit their sweets?” Pomona said in alarm. “That’s horrible!”

“Some of them are getting rather fat,” Severus said thoughtfully.

“They’re growing!” Pomona snapped at him. “We can’t starve them!”

“No one is saying we should starve them,” Minerva soothed her with practiced ease. “It’s simply a single parent’s complaint which we must read, no more no less.”

“We can’t let the children go hungry,” Pomona said one last time, even though that really had nothing to do with the complaint. Hogwarts did serve an awful lot of sweets.

“How many complaints were about Severus?” Quirrell asked, not letting the topic go.

Minerva counted quickly. “Only nine,” she said, impressed. “Severus, are you feeling alright?”

“I find the endless tedium of children exhausts me,” Severus said, and wished he could light a cigarette. He’d already been reprimanded too many times for smoking during staff meetings.

Pomona patted his arm. “Too bad you’re a teacher then, eh?”

“Moving on…” Minerva said, checking the letters off of her written agenda. “Who wants to help with Christmas decorations?”

“Ooh!” Filius said, waving his arm in the air. “Yes!”

“Hagrid has already volunteered to handle the trees,” Albus said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “And perhaps I could—“

“That’s quite alright, Albus,” Minerva said hastily. “I’m sure Filius and I will do a bang-up job.”

“You didn’t even listen to my suggestion,” Albus pouted, but Minerva was already hastily moving onto the next thing on her list.

“Ah, our final item. The safety of the school given that we’re hiding an incredibly powerful and tempting magical item in the basement.” She shot Albus a disapproving look. Severus found he whole-heartedly concurred.

“Minerva, that is exactly why we must hide it in the basement,” Albus said patiently, although some of the other staff were rolling their eyes. Severus noticed that Quirrell had a particularly keen look on his face.

“Why won’t you tell us anything more about it?” Minerva challenged.

“Would you really risk offering potential thieves such an advantage as to learn of the protections ahead of time?” Albus asked. Not to mention the reaction of the professors if they learned about some of the things Albus had cooked up.

“Then how exactly are we supposed to be convinced of its safety?” Minerva challenged, crossing her arms.

“Because I am giving you my word,” Albus said solemnly. “The artefact is safe. The students cannot access it. Any who try to get to it unaided will find themselves turned around without any harm done to them.”

And then Severus had an idea. “I assure you all,” he said to his fellow professors, “the protections are perfectly adequate, and the children are entirely safe from them.” As he expected, Quirrell’s attention snapped to him. He could practically see the wheels turning in Quirrell’s mind. After all, trying to get information from the greatest wizard of all time was one thing. Trying to get information from a reedy potions master who hadn’t left his dungeon in years was an entirely different matter.

What Quirrell didn’t know, of course, was that Severus Snape was more than just a reedy potions master. He was a reedy potions master with a tween girl sidekick. Who did Quirrell have? The most feared Dark Lord of the past century?

“Well!” Pomona said, throwing up her hands. “At least one of us knows what these protections are. I guess that’ll have to do. If you’re sure they’re safe, Severus?”

“Safe for the children,” Severus corrected. “Certainly not safe for anyone who wishes to steal the artefact.” There. He could tell, Quirrell’s curiosity was sufficiently piqued. He’d have to inform Granger of the plan as soon as possible, in case Quirrell moved faster than he expected.

Albus was giving him a considering look, but merely smiled at him when Severus met his eye. “I’m pleased to have you on my side, Severus,” he said, and gave him a wink.

Severus’ blood went cold. Albus was suspicious. He would have to play this very carefully indeed.

* * *

Hermione quietly let herself into her flat, picking up her mail as she went. Most of it was advertising, but there was an invitation to lunch from Rita Skeeter, a response from a charms master she’d been in contact with (with whom she’d been rather friendly in her first life), and… yes, there it was, Sirius confirming that he was free at seven that evening for drinks.

He’d reached out to her, and she’d been happy to take advantage of the opportunity. She was still hoping to wrangle an invitation to Grimmauld Place from him, although it might be tricky since he didn’t actually live there. Still, he’d probably visit some point, right? Maybe he’d be interested in having someone to help him disenchant things.

Hermione had been worried that Sirius wouldn’t be able to make it, since tonight was the full moon, but thankfully she’d been wrong. It was such a hassle to only be free on the weekends.

Speaking of free… Hermione made a beeline for her potions cabinet, and unwittingly glanced at herself in the mirror as she did so. The sight made her wince. She avoided looking in mirrors as much as she could, still deeply unsettled by the experience of looking into the mirror and not seeing herself as she thought she should look. It didn’t help that her body was going through puberty now, bringing back all sorts of unpleasant memories of how she’d felt experiencing it the first time. Thankfully she wasn’t getting the painful mood swings she’d gotten the first time around, but then again there was still time. Her body was only twelve.

A pimply, scrawny, unbelievably awkward twelve. She knew it was because she was used to being an adult, with adult proportions, but she felt like she was looking at herself in one of those muggle fun-house mirrors, where you saw yourself horribly distorted. Just looking at herself made her angry and frustrated, embarrassed by the depths of her self-disgust and filled with a deep and desperate longing for the person she knew she was inside.

Thankfully she had magic. She downed an ageing potion, and sighed in relief as she saw herself come back into view. If she could live in ageing potions, she would, no question. She’d find away around the side effects.

Hermione happily settled into working on her mastery papers. That’s how she spent most of the day, holed up at the desk in her tiny flat, squinting at old tomes and carefully working through equations. She was startled when the alarm she’d set chimed, letting her know it was almost time to meet Sirius. She regretted leaving her research, but she was looking forward to going out and doing something, in a weird way. And at her favourite bar! She hadn’t been there since she’d come back in time. It felt too weird to go just to drink alone.

“Sirius! How are you?” Hermione asked him, when she found him waiting outside for her.

“Ophelia,” Sirius said, grinning at her. “Just delightful, and yourself?”

“Oh, so busy,” Hermione said. “I’ve been putting all the time I can into writing my papers… It’s been a little stressful, actually.” She realised the truth in her words as they came out of her, and winced. “Yeah. A little stressful.”

“Drinks are just the thing, then,” Sirius said happily, leading her inside. “I’ve never been here before, it’s an interesting choice for a bar.”

The Dragon’s Tooth was your typical dive bar/tavern, located just off of Archaic Alley. The only difference was that this one was dragon themed, with a huge painting of a dragon taking up one of the walls. In the previous timeline, it’d been one of the few places she could go where she wasn’t swamped with reporters all the time. Now, she lived just down the street.

“It has its charm,” Hermione said, smiling. It was exactly how she remembered, although the sullen bartender behind the bar looked a little younger. The dragon was asleep, little puffs of smoke coming from its nose.

“What do you want,” Sheila said, when they sat down. She eyed Sirius, but didn’t comment.

Sirius seemed pleased with the lack of attention from the other patrons. “I’ll have a Gentle Repose,” he said.

Sheila raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “And you?”

“Can I get a Dancing Lights, please?” Hermione asked. It’d been one of her favourites before. Did they still have it?

Sheila nodded, and reached back to the bottles behind her. The version she made was a little different than Hermione remembered — this one had celery syrup for some reason — but when Hermione tasted it, it tasted like home.

“Thanks,” Hermione said, and watched in amusement as Sheila gave Sirius what was essentially a milkshake.

“Nice,” Sirius said.

“I’ve never heard of putting absinthe in a milkshake,” Hermione commented.

“Want to try?”

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said immediately, shaking her head. “Honestly that thing looks like it could kill someone.”

“Or preserve their corpse,” Sirius grinned. “Not sure if you caught what the bar lady was doing, but you take the pure spirit and mix it with sugar, when whip it into this sort of foam. It’s my favourite part.”

“You know your cocktails,” Sheila said, reluctantly impressed.

“I used to bartend right out of school,” Sirius admitted, with an embarrassed shrug. “Mostly just to piss off my parents but it turns out I really loved it.”“We’re hiring,” Sheila said.

“I could use a job,” Sirius said thoughtfully. “Are you hiring ex-cons who have recently been exonerated?”

“Yep.” Sheila passed a slip of paper over to him. “Manager’s card.”

“Thanks,” Sirius said, slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Did you just get a job?” Hermione said in amusement.

“I think I’ve only been invited to apply,” Sirius corrected. He drank some more of his embalming fluid. “So how have you been?”

They made small talk for a while, the conversation eventually drifting to their childhoods. Hermione didn’t pry, but she did gently try to steer the conversation to Sirius’ parents’ house. Unfortunately, he was an expert at deflection, and easily moved the conversation along.

Still, Hermione was enjoying herself. There was something absolutely excellent about just spending time with an adult, hanging out like friends. Maybe there was a bit of flirting as well (Hermione literally didn’t know, she was absolutely terrible at that kind of thing).

And Sirius was fun to be around. He was easy to talk to, laid back in a way that she’d never, ever seen him. The dark anger he’d carried around when she’d known him had faded to just a touch of bitterness. He smiled easier, and for longer, and seemed simply amazed at being alive.

“But how do they keep from tipping over and plummeting to the ground?” Sirius asked curiously. Hermione was trying to explain hang-gliding to him.

“It’s like— um, like aerodynamics,” she said, having a hard time because she’d never been hang-gliding before and honestly didn’t know much about the topic. Why had they started talking about this again? “There’s air pressure against the wings, and they sort of just… keep you afloat.” She winced. “Like a bird.”

“It sounds dangerous,” Sirius said, with a gleam in his eyes.

“I’m not sure how dangerous it is. I mean, muggles do it all the time and live. So it can’t be that dangerous?”

“I’m definitely going to try it,” Sirius said, but Hermione suddenly wasn’t paying attention.

The door had opened, and in walked Severus Snape.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Hermione said, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck is he doing, following me?” she said to herself, but Snape looked at her and his eyes narrowed with annoyance.

“You!” Snape cursed, immediately stomping over. He glared down at her, practically ignoring Sirius, who looked more amused than anything. “Can’t you leave me alone?”

“Leave _you_ alone?! You’re the one who fucking followed me here!” Hermione said, throwing up her hands.

“Followed you? Why would I ever bother doing something as inane and tedious as following you? This is _my_ favourite bar!”

“No, this is _my_ favourite bar!” Hermione shot back, furious.

There was a moment of silent incomprehension, before Sirius butted in: “This is my new favourite bar too.”

Snape’s face twisted in anger. “Of course you would be conspiring with Black of all people, the lowest of the low. And to think I’d expected better of you.” He gave a condescending snort and stomped off down the bar.

“Actually, she’s consorting with me, not conspiring!” Sirius called after him, and then turned back to Hermione with a smirk. “It’s interesting to see that Snivvy’s found someone he hates more than me.”

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Hermione said. “Can’t he just leave me alone?”

“And another thing,” Snape said, popping up out of nowhere so suddenly that Hermione almost fell from her chair. “How dare you bring Black in here, the only bar in this whole god damn place that I actually like, and then pretend as if _I’m_ the one inconveniencing _you_?” His glare was pure poison.

Sirius glanced at his watch. “Oh, shit.”

“Are you kidding me? How the hell was I supposed to know you’ve even ever been here before! Am I supposed to keep a fucking list of your favourite places that I’m not allowed to bring Sirius into?”

“Ophelia, I’ve got to go,” Sirius said, dropping some coins on the bar.

“Yes!” Snape said, angry beyond sense. “How about you give me some privacy and not interfere into my personal life at every opportunity?”

“How is keeping a list of your favourite places less of an invasion, you absolute lunatic?” Hermione seethed with anger.

Sirius kissed her on the cheek. “Bye, Ophelia, I’ll see you later,” he said, then glanced over at Snape. “Have fun with Snivellus.”

“Oh that is fucking it,” Snape said, drawing his wand, glowering at Sirius.

Hermione reached over and grabbed the wand right out of his hand. “No you don’t, if you get me kicked out I’ll end your entire existence. Bye, Sirius!” She waved to him, and shrugged helplessly.

Sirius gave her a look— something like amusement? Except she didn’t recognise it— and left with a wave.

“That’s just great, you’ve chased away my date,” Hermione muttered.

“Is that what that was?” Snape groused, taking Sirius’ abandoned seat.

Sheila wordlessly slipped him a pint.

“Well, maybe. I don’t know. I was trying to get an invitation to his parents’ place,” Hermione said, feeling a strange urge to defend herself. “This is dumb. I don’t actually want to fight with you.” It took a lot (of alcohol) for her to admit that. Damn, how many had she had?

“Is this really your favourite bar?” Snape asked her around his cigarette.

“Yes. Is this really yours?”

Snape glanced over at the wall with the painting. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“It’s kind of funny when you think about it, actually. I mean, what are the odds?”

“I don’t know, you’re the arithmancer.”

“I am not!” Hermione said, offended. “Charms mistress, thank you very much. Oh. Future charms mistress.” She deflated again.

“Perhaps it is not the most painful thing in existence that I have run into you tonight,” Snape admitted. “I had some thoughts on… the idea you had earlier. I may have something like a plan.”

Hermione glanced around the bar. Sheila was within earshot, of course, but there were other patrons out tonight as well who could easily listen in. “Let’s discuss this somewhere else,” she said, and then she said, with all the courage of four Dancing Lights, “My flat is just up the street.”

Snape was quiet, and for a moment Hermione thought she might’ve offended him. “Do you have alcohol at your flat?” He finally asked, in a skeptical tone. “I have every intention of getting plastered tonight. I’ve had a week.”

“Ehm… All I have is goblin brew. But I have a lot of it.”

“That will be adequate.”

* * *

“This… is not what I expected,” was the first thing Snape said. He looked around her flat in confused surprise.

Hermione looked around, trying to see it from someone else’s point of view. Clean, cozy kitchen. Sofa, shoved in the corner under a reading light. Large desk, covered with papers. It was shabby, yes, but very clean. The materials she had to work with may not be very good, but she was still a charms mistress.

“Really? What did you expect?”

“I suppose… unicorns or something,” Snape said, eyeing her furnishings. There was lots of blue with silver accents, lighter in the kitchen and darker in the living room. “Red and gold, lions everywhere.”

“So a twelve-year-old Gryffindor girl’s dream room, you mean?” Hermione asked in amusement. She flopped down onto the dark grey couch. “Sorry to disappoint,” she said, kicking her shoes off. “Conjure up a chair.”

Snape did— a plain, light grey armchair that actually looked rather good with her decor. Hermione eyed him as he settled in, and then waved her wand lazily.

“Goblin brew,” she explained, as the wooden crate zoomed out of the kitchen. She let it drop gently onto the coffee table.

“Ah, their Halloween batch,” Snape said, cracking open a bottle.

“It’s okay,” Hermione said, laying back on the couch. “I liked their summer solstice one better. Sometimes I just get so fucking sick of pumpkin, you know?”

Snape took a swig. “I’ve had worse,” he said. “And I certainly believe strawberry-flavoured lager qualifies as ‘worse.’”

“It wasn’t just strawberry!” Hermione protested. “It had honeydew as well.”

“I don’t see how that changes anything.”

Hermione huffed. “Maybe you should get your tongue looked at because it sounds like your tastebuds fell off.”

Snape paused, bottle at his lips. “What.”

Hermione stood up suddenly, head spinning. “Shit, I need to drink some water. I’m going to have one fucking hangover tomorrow.”

“Do you always swear this much when you’re drunk?” Snape asked her as she got herself a glass.

“Yes,” Hermione called back over her shoulder, and then took a long drink. She should remember to take a potion tonight as well. Still, she grabbed a bottle of brew as she sat back down on the couch.

“Can I smoke in here?” Snape asked, already lighting a cigarette.

“Do you always smoke this much when you drink?” Hermione asked snidely.

Snape took a long drag, and then tapped the ashes onto her coffee table.

“Fuck you too then,” Hermione muttered, opening the window with a lazy wave of her wand. She added a twist to create a gentle breeze that would blow the smoke outside. “So your ideas for Quirrell or whatever?”

“Ah yes, my plan,” Snape said, leaning back in his chair. He looked surprisingly comfortable, bottle in his left hand and cigarette in his right, and his ankle crossed over his knee. He looked weirdly casual. “I’m going to let Quirrell kidnap me.”

“As like a sex thing?”

Snape narrowed his eyes at her.

“Sorry,” Hermione said hastily. “I meant like. Seduction. Admittedly it sounds pretty stupid now that I’m saying it out loud. So why is he kidnapping you again?”

“He will think I have information on the stone’s protections and try to get that information from me. We will trap him in the act and turn him in.”

“Why can’t we just go to Dumbledore and tell him everything we know?” Hermione complained. “This seems like overkill.”

“You know very well that it isn’t the Headmaster we need to convince, it’s the DMLE and the Board of Governors. And Albus is… I am not sure he’s the most reliable ally at the moment.” Snape looked pained as he said so.

“Because of his drinking?” Hermione said morosely, drinking from her own bottle. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have been so hard on him for drinking during the day. Hogwarts is fucking exhausting.”

“Among other things,” Snape said cagily. “Regardless, once we’ve caught Quirrell and have proof of his crimes, then we must bring it to the Headmaster at once. After Quirrell is dealt with, I think we will be in an optimal position to tell Albus about our time travel, with the highest chance that he believes our story.”

“Wait, that’s why you haven’t told him yet?” Hermione said, sitting up. “Because you don’t think he’ll believe you if you say you traveled in time?’

Snape shifted uncomfortably. “There are many reasons.”

“But we have proof! We have future knowledge!”

“Future knowledge, if you don’t believe time travel of this scale is possible, looks a lot like regular knowledge obtained through illicit means. And with the possibility of other travellers, there is no reason to think that events will unfold in the same way as they have before. I think it is far easier to believe that I, a former Death Eater, have cursed a genius twelve-year-old girl into thinking she’s an adult from the future for my own nefarious schemes.”

“I think having a charms mastery goes beyond ‘smart twelve-year-old,’” Hermione said in annoyance. “But actually, no, you’re probably right. God, I can’t even imagine how long it would take to get anyone to actually take us seriously. You think having Quirrell would make that process go smoother?”

“Yes. At the very least it is a gesture of good will. If I were working for the Dark Lord, after all, I would take advantage of this opportunity to see him resurrected. I would have nothing to gain from turning him and Quirrell in.”

“Okay, sure, and I gain credibility if you corroborate my story,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Kidnapping it is then. So how exactly is this going to help us?”

“I have a few ideas…”

What started as a one-sentence plan turned into hours of them carefully weighing ideas and options, not helped by their steady drinking. It was at the point where Snape suggested that they could set up an elaborate one-way mirror and trick Quirrell into revealing his evil plan in front of the entire Great Hall at breakfast, villain’s monologue style, that Hermione realised they might be too drunk to get anything else productive done.

“Fuck,” she said, looking at the empty bottles on the table. “Do you think we’re alcoholics? Do we need to watch our drinking?”

“Maybe you do,” Snape scoffed. “I drink only occasionally, after a stressful day.”

“Are you kidding me? Most of these are yours!”

“I only drink this much when I’m with you,” Snape said darkly.

“Hate me that much?” Hermione aimed for a clever quip, but it was ruined by her tripping over her words in the middle of the sentence.

“I don’t hate you,” Snape replied, not looking at her. “It’s not your fault you’re the one person in the world who knows all of the worst things about me, knows precisely the worst things I have ever done. Coming back here was a boon, in a twisted way, a chance to start over. Not fresh, not exactly, but certainly fresher. And then I discovered you had come back as well, carrying the full weight of my sins with you. My chance at redemption is sullied, because you of all people know the truth, the twisted depths that I hold within myself. How can I—“ Snape started coughing suddenly. “Forget everything I’ve said, I’ve had far too much to drink,” he said bleakly, staring bleary-eyed at the coffee table. His face was slowly turning red in embarrassment.

Hermione set her bottle gently on the table. “I’m not sure if you know this,” she said carefully, “But before my seventh year, I wiped my parents’ memories and sent them to Australia. I thought they’d be safer there, and I knew— I knew they’d never go if they remembered me.”

“You— their entire memory of you?” Snape asked, a strange expression on his face.

“Yeah,” Hermione said. “I didn’t realise— I thought it was reversible. I thought I could find them after the war, and then we’d be a family again. And maybe they’d be angry, but they’d understand and then— I don’t know. I thought everything would be okay.”

“To erase that much… Sixteen years of memories…”

“I was at boarding school for most of that time anyway, so I thought it’d be fine,” Hermione said, shoulders tense. “And then I started and I kept having to take more and more— I didn’t realise how much they thought about me, how much they talked about me even when I wasn’t there. It took forever, but I finally removed everything I needed to, and I let their brains fill in the gaps. And then…” She fell silent, unable to bring herself to continue.

“And then?” Snape prompted.

“And then I went to find them in Australia after the war. I knew by then that I wouldn’t be able to fix their memories, but I wanted at least to check in on them. I borrowed Harry’s cloak and watched them for weeks. I almost didn’t, at first, but when looking them up I realised that they no longer had their dental practice, and I needed to know what was going on. So I followed them. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, at first. My parents— they were unrecognisable. They were both working these random shitty jobs to scrape cash together, and they’d blown through all of their savings and mortgaged the house. They were… They’d gotten addicted to drugs. Because there was nothing left in the world that could— that could—“

“Fill the hole in their hearts,” Snape finished for her. “A common symptom of severe memory loss. The constant feeling that there is something missing from your life, the pain of a phantom limb that you don’t even realise is missing. Their only child, taken from them forever.”

“Yep,” Hermione said, popping the ‘p.’ “That’s me. Ruining their lives forever. Anyway, so now you know the worst thing I ever did. So look at that, we’re even.” She didn’t know if he was looking at her because she was staring determinedly at the table, but she could feel the weight of his gaze on her. When she looked up, however, he was leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

“You have a second chance now,” he pointed out quietly.

“Fuck that,” Hermione said. “I’m keeping as far away from them as I can. I’d much rather be the distant daughter who disappointed them than risk... I don’t want them to get hurt again,” she finished lamely.

“I understand,” Snape said.

They fell quiet. Hermione’s face burned with embarrassment, but she felt lighter than she had in months. There was something cathartic about midnight confessions. “Shit, what time is it?”

“One in the morning,” Snape said, checking his watch. “If I apparate right now I’ll probably leave my fucking hands in your apartment,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “I’ve had a rather lot to drink. My mouth is going to taste like pumpkin for weeks.”

“Just stay here,” Hermione said. “We’ll go back to Hogwarts in the morning. Not like anyone will miss us anyway.”

“Fine,” he said. He must have been really tired to not even protest. Hermione watched as he stretched out in his chair, which elongated and took on a fluffier appearance.

“Great, good night,” Hermione said, and managed to stumble her way into her room where she collapsed on her bed. “Thank Merlin for spells,” she muttered to herself as she charmed her teeth minty fresh. She watched the lights turn off in the living room, and soon fell herself into a deep, quiet sleep.

* * *

Severus woke up to the weak early morning sunlight searing his eyeballs through his eyelids.

He groaned in inarticulate agony as he threw an arm over his face. An arm covered in a cloth sleeve. He was still wearing his robes?

He squinted his eyes open, taking in the coffee table covered in a truly staggering number of empty bottles, and the strange living room.

Ah yes, the living room of Hermione Granger. He was surprised she’d let him stay when she was sleeping in the next room. As far as he could tell, her door wasn’t even warded.

The full weight of his situation sunk in and he immediately shot to his feet. It took him only a moment to collect himself and sneak out of the flat. He apparated from the foyer, where the wards on the building ended. It gave him a blinding headache, but given how much he’d had to drink it was only a matter of time anyway.

Severus staggered through the gate and up the path. What the actual fuck had he been thinking? Had he gone completely out of his mind? Every decision throughout the night had seemed perfectly reasonable — after all, they’d needed a private place to discuss the problem of Quirrell, and her flat and been conveniently nearby — and yet somehow when taken as the sum of the whole everything become absolutely embarrassing. He’d never be able to look her in the eyes again. What had he _said_ to her last night? He remembered rambling on about his difficulties in coming back in time, and then she’d told her own story of her parents— Christ. That had been a more depressing tale than he’d expected from Hermione bloody Granger.

There was a dark figure coming down the path ahead. Severus squinted, and carefully didn’t react when he realised it was Quirrell.

“Why hello, Severus,” Quirrell said, with faux cheerfulness. “It’s curious to see you out and about so early. Or did you have a late night?”

“That’s none of your business,” Severus snarled. He’d never been polite to Quirrell before; starting now would only be suspicious.

“My my, you certainly don’t look well,” Quirrell said, raising his voice. Severus militantly suppressed his discomfort at the noise. “Shall I give you some assistance back to the castle?”

Severus slapped Quirrell’s hand away. “No you shan’t,” he replied furiously. “Get away from me.”

“Oh but Severus, I really think it’s time we had a serious conversation. After all…” Quirrell’s eyes flashed red. “We’re old friends, aren’t we?”

Severus stilled, his mind racing. How did he play this? Pretend ignorance? No, he’d never be believed. Play the spy? He felt the stirrings of obligation, but… He’d been the spy for so fucking long. Hadn’t he already collected enough information? He had six and a half years of excellent intelligence. Depending on how much the timeline changed. He’d paid his dues, hadn’t he? How far did an obligation to a dead woman extend? And yet there was the weight of his other sins, the ones that had no longer happened. Even now he could feel the tug at his heart strings, the painful yearning to make up for a life he’d never be able to live.

But there was a third option. Severus turned and ran. He heard Quirrell’s laughter behind him. Good. He would run, but not too fast. He would hide, but not too well. He would let Quirrell catch him, but on Severus’ own terms. And hopefully with enough time that Granger would wake up and return to the castle. He’d left foot prints in the muddy ground. She’d figure it out. She knew the plan.

Granted, this wasn’t exactly the plan.

Severus ran along the edge of the forest, looking for the perfect spot to enter. Too far southeast and he’d run afoul of the acromantula. Too far west and he’d be attacked by centaurs.

There, perfect: a faint path, one he’d used before while collecting potions ingredients. He peeled away, and risked a look back.

Quirrell wasn’t running— he was floating, levitating just above the ground. Moving fast, but not fast enough to overtake him. How good were his magic reserves? Not very, Severus imagined.

“Severus? Where have you disappeared to?” Quirrell called after him, tone light-hearted as if this were nothing more than a game.

Then again, in some ways it was. And so they played.

Severus crouched behind the boulder, breathing magically silenced, body disillusioned. He made not a single sound, but unfortunately Quirrell’s levitation meant that he didn’t make any sound either.

Quirrell came into view, following the path. He raised his wand.

Severus held his breath, and then released it. The _Hominum Revelio_ was pointed in the wrong direction.

Quirrell glided past. “Dear Severus, you act like you don’t want to see me.”

Severus felt a chill down his spine. That was all the confirmation he needed— this was the Dark Lord. There were only two people in the world who called him “dear,” and the other was the Headmaster and thus likely not possessing Quirrell.

Severus checked his watch. Getting towards mid-morning. Was Granger awake? Was she still at home? He peaked over the top of the boulder, estimating that Quirrell was far enough away to risk a patronus. But was Granger alone? There was a possibility that she wasn’t; he’d have to be circumspect.

He conjured. His patrons appeared, and he let out a harsh breath and a silent swear.

The doe was gone. The last trace of Lily, gone. In its place was a black dog, a grim, disturbingly similar to Black’s animagus form. Fucking hell, he didn’t even want to think about what that could mean.

He ruthlessly stamped down all thoughts on the subject. He didn’t have time. “Plan is now,” he whispered to the dog. It rolled its eyes at him, and then the streak of ghostly silver disappeared off into the distance. Not towards the castle, thankfully.

But it did go past Quirrell.

Severus cursed silently to himself. Of all the fucking luck. He must have gotten really turned around in here; he hadn’t realised south was that way.

“Isn’t that interesting,” Quirrell said, turning around. His wand was in his hand, and Severus felt the subtle magic of a _Revelio_ wash over him. “There you are!”

Fight or flee? Severus’ mind raced.

Too late. Quirrell had already cast at him, and when Severus tried to dodge another quick spell had his feet tangled up in tree roots.

Quirrell laughed as he cast again, ropes wrapping tightly around Severus before he could react.

They constricted his body, painfully tight. His wand fell from his useless grip. No matter. He had some wandless magic. Enough to summon his wand back in a pinch. This would be fine. He would be fine. It didn’t matter that the Dark Lord was slowly approaching him, a hungry look on his face.

It didn’t matter that the Dark Lord seemed sharper and smarter than Severus had seen him since the Potter incident.

It didn’t matter that Severus could hardly breathe for the force of the dark magic pressing in on him, suffocating him, intoxicating him in that special way the Dark Lord had had at the height of his power.

Severus was fucked.

“Do you see me, Severus? Do you see what I’ve become? Reduced to sharing a body with this sad, small man? Still. Quirinus is adequate for my needs. Oh, but how I have longed for different company. I’ve had no one to talk to but possibly the most boring man in the world.” The Dark Lord crouched down next to where Severus was trussed up. “Dear, dear, Severus, how could you deny me your lovely company?” The Dark Lord traced a finger down Severus’ cheek. “And how could you _run_?” He dug in his fingernail, ripping through the flesh on Severus’ face, burning pain tracing line down his cheek.

“My Lord?” Severus gasped out. “Could it be?”

“Cut the shit,” the Dark Lord said.

Severus sighed through the pain. A smile flickered across the Dark Lord’s face.

“My Lord, will you kill me?” Even now, Severus had to remain polite and subservient. He needed to stay alive as long as possible, to give Granger time to find him.

“Do you think me a monster?” The Dark Lord said, through a smirk. “I have no intention of killing you. Quickly, that is. I truly do miss our chats, Severus. Do you remember? Long nights by the fire, a glass of wine in our hands? Do you remember discussing potions theory until the early hours of the morning, drunk off the alcohol and good company? Do you remember pledging yourself to me, body and soul, to be mine for eternity?”

“Yes,” Severus said hoarsely. “Yes, my Lord. I do.” He knew his colleagues judged him, thought him morally corrupt for ever being able to follow someone as vile as the Dark Lord, but it was more complicated than that. The Dark Lord had been evil, yes, sociopathic, yes, but he’d also been so much more.

And there had once been a time when the issue was about more than just pureblood versus muggleborn.

“And yet you would throw that all away? And for what? An old fool making moon eyes at you?”

“My Lord,” Severus said, hesitantly. He saw a chance and he was taking it. “Respectfully, you… died. I’d thought you dead.”

The Dark Lord laughed. “To think me mortal! The very idea!”

“My Lord, you were gone. Vanished.”

“Vanished, yes, but not vanquished,” the Dark Lord said with amusement. “True, I was weakened after my encounter with… the boy… but through strength of will and my own formidable magical power, I survived. I lived for some time like a rat, hiding on the backs of animals. And then, who should appear, but a young man, who’d gone looking for vampires in Albania. Foolish, pathetic Quirrell. And yet… he proved to be more than he’d appeared.”

“Quirrell?” Severus said skeptically. Could the Dark Lord be referring to Quirrell traveling through time?

“Mmm,” the Dark Lord said. “He is more skilled than you realise. How else could he have gotten me the Elixir of Life?”

“Wha—“ Severus’ mouth dropped open in genuine shock. He plastered an amazed expression on his face, careful not to overdo it. To toe the line between fawning and annoying, something he’d always been excellent at. “My Lord, you’ve stolen the stone?” he said. Could the Dark Lord hear the desperation in his voice? The pain that struck his heart? All this time, he and Granger and been so arrogant, thinking themselves smarter than everyone because of their knowledge, thinking themselves untouchable.

“Ah yes, you see, my dear Quirinus—“ and how sick was it that Severus felt a flash of jealousy that the Dark Lord would call anyone else ‘dear’— “hatched a truly inspired scheme. He learned, through deliciously devious means, the day the stone would be moved from Gringotts. He followed that oaf carefully, and when his chance came, he took it. He grabbed the stone. But not to steal, oh no. Instead he took some powder from it. Not enough to notice, but enough to make the Elixir of Life. And then he returned the stone, with none the wiser.”

“My Lord, then why are you here? And in another’s body?” Keep him talking, Severus. That was the key with the Dark Lord. He absolutely loved to talk, and it appeared that being stuck with Quirrell for months hadn’t changed that one bit.

“A small amount of the Elixir of Life is sufficient, for my purposes. It allowed me to regain some of my strength, and will allow me to regain my body when I choose to do so. But a whole stone worth of Elixir… I would live forever, at the height of my power! Such is my fatal flaw, my hubris of legend. I am so easily tempted by the promise of conquering death itself, forever.”

Severus carefully did not roll his eyes. In addition to his habit for pontificating, the Dark Lord also possessed a healthy dose of melodrama. Although he hadn’t been this self-introspective since before the his resurrection. It was strange, seeing him like this. He seemed— almost human. More human than monster, at least.

“But you can help me with that, Severus,” the Dark Lord said, stroking Severus’ throat as a lover might. It was more threatening than comforting. “You can tell me what the protections are.”

“My Lord, I am sworn to secrecy on the specifics, but perhaps I could tell you—“

The Dark Lord’s fingers tightened, and Severus gasped. “Oh, are you? That would be rather convenient for you, wouldn’t it? But I think not. I think you’re working against me, and I think you have been all year. After all…” the Dark Lord leaned in, lips twisted into a smile close enough to Severus’ ear that he could feel the Dark Lord’s breath on his skin. “I know you were the one who broke into our rooms.” The Dark Lord leaned back, twirling his wand through his fingers effortlessly until it settled into his hand, pointing at Severus.

Severus braced himself, but it didn’t help. The pain that tore through him was unimaginable, and the soundtrack of his own screams and the Dark Lord’s laughter burrowed its way into his mind and deep into his soul.

And all Severus could think, the words he repeated to himself like a mantra, were—

Fuck. Granger.


	6. Kreacher's Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus sits in a bed. And some other things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very difficult chapter for me to write. As you can probably tell, given that it took me literally months to write 7500 words. But I am back, and I've started working on the next chapter as well, although I can't make any promises as to when that will be posted. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The clearing burned with fire.

Severus could feel the flames licking at his boots, could feel the heat penetrate deep into skin while the smoke shredded his lungs to ash.

He could hear the sounds of fighting, in the distance. Hazy and indistinct, the way the sky had gone.

Hands were on his shoulders now, the cool relief of a fire protection spell washing over him like stepping into the lake on a hot summer’s day.

“Severus,” a female voice muttered. A hand smoothed his hair down. He couldn’t see. His eyes wouldn’t open anymore. He couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the tremors up and down his body.

“Please, open your eyes,” she pleaded. Casting, furious casting, but it didn’t matter. He fell into glorious unconsciousness, the pain giving way to the bleak relief of the void.

* * *

Hermione paced around Snape’s bed.

They’d had a plan. It wasn’t the best plan, but it was good enough. Should have been good enough, at least, for someone like Quirrell. A Quirrell who wasn’t even playing host to Voldemort! They’d carefully gone through the options, and formulated this as their best shot at safely catching him with enough evidence to put him away.

Instead, Snape got fucking kidnapped and tortured by the creep, tortured way beyond the belief of Quirrell’s competency. If she hadn’t been awake when the patronus came, if Dumbledore hadn’t been in his office, if she’d taken just a minute longer—

There was a groan from the bed.

Professor Dumbledore sat up in his chair. His face was grave, and he grasped Snape’s hand gently, as if holding something precious.

Yet another thing that Hermione didn’t understand one bit.

“Severus?” Professor Dumbledore said softly. “Can you speak?”

“W— water,” Snape managed, and was rewarded with a glass. He managed to sit himself up, a testament to Madam Pomfrey’s excellent training. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Professor Dumbledore said softly. He glanced over at Hermione thoughtfully. “Or us, rather. Miss Granger fetched me and we came to your aid. You are lucky that I was already studying the wards when she came calling. It made it simple to find you. Otherwise it might have taken hours.”

“Quirrell was being possessed by the Dark Lord,” Snape said flatly. There was an automatic tone to his voice, as if reciting something he’d memorised. Was this what he’d done as a spy? “He has already taken the Elixir of Life, although he does not currently have possession of the stone. He was saner and more stable than I’ve seen him since his fall. He suspected me of breaking into Quirrell’s rooms earlier this year—“ his eyes flickered over to where Hermione was standing. She felt her stomach sink into a twisted knot of agonised horror. “—and decided to punish me. I am uncertain whether he knows me to be a traitor. At the very least he suspects, although I— based on his actions he intended to punish, not to kill, although I—“ Cracks were beginning to show in Snape’s impenetrable expression. “I am uncertain of his intentions towards me at this time.”

Professor Dumbledore sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “I am so sorry, Severus, for all you have suffered this day.”

“Don’t be,” Snape said, eyes cast downward, locked firmly on his bedspread. “I take full responsibility.” Again he briefly glanced at Hermione.

She pursed her lips. She couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck that,” she said angrily. “Look, I know part of this — most of this — is my fault, you don’t have to be so— so infuriatingly stupid about it.”

“Whatever do you mean, Miss Granger?” Professor Dumbledore asked her. His eyebrows were raised, although he didn’t look surprised by her outburst.

“I’m the one who broke into Quirrell’s rooms,” Hermione explained, furious at herself and at Snape and at absolutely everyone. “I didn’t think he’d suspect Snape! And I definitely didn’t think Quirrell would get the drop on him like this, I mean— Voldemort was a lizard!”

Professor Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Why don’t you start at the beginning.”

Hermione hesitated. She looked over at Snape, who looked back at her, expressionless.

“It’s a little complicated,” Hermione hedged.

“Why don’t you start after you traveled back in time,” Professor Dumbledore suggested, a faint smile on his lips.

Snape whipped his head up to look at Professor Dumbledore so quickly that Hermione thought he’d break his neck. He looked horrified, a more sincere expression than she’d ever seen on his face before.

“You knew?” he said hoarsely.

“My dear boy, what sort of man do you think I am?” Professor Dumbledore was clearly amused.

Snape slumped back into the bed. “How?” he asked hoarsely. “How could that be?”

Professor Dumbledore hesitated.

“Please,” Snape said. “Please. The truth.”

Professor Dumbledore nodded slowly. “The truth is a very complicated thing,” he said. He sounded apologetic. “I would love nothing more than to tell you everything, than to reveal to you the depths of my very soul, and yet… Now is not the time. Later, I promise you. When the danger has passed, I will explain everything. For now, however, time is of the essence, so I will be brief. I know the two of you traveled back in time. I myself have no future knowledge, but I was able to piece that together simply enough. Miss Granger, of course, casts magic as an adult, and I suspect holds a mastery in one of the wanded arts. Not to mention her and her mysterious cousin are the same person.”

“But how did you know?” Hermione protested. She was so embarrassed at having been caught out so easily. Still, if anyone could, it would be Albus Dumbledore.

“Miss Granger,” Professor Dumbledore said. He sounded truly apologetic. “I do have eyes.”

“Alright, but how did you know Hermione Granger isn’t actually Ophelia?” she demanded.

“Hermione Granger is on the list for Hogwarts,” Professor Dumbledore said. “She is a real person. There is no trace of Ophelia Oleander before this summer.” Well. That did make sense.

“And me?” Snape asked hoarsely.

Professor Dumbledore smiled kindly. “Your behaviour has changed noticeably since the early summer. Not to mention your frequent dalliances with Miss Granger, here.” Snape sputtered at the word ‘dalliance.’ “But I suspect others have traveled in time as well. Regrettably, I have yet to determine how many, or who.”

“Quirrell as well,” Snape said. So he’d been right after all. Hermione couldn’t say she was surprised. “That was how he was able to obtain the Elixir of Life. I never suspected it, but he is perhaps slightly more clever than I believed him capable. Or perhaps the Dark Lord had more of a hand in this scheme than he’d been willing to admit.”

“Ah yes, his scheme. You mentioned the Elixir?” Professor Dumbledore leaned forward over steepled fingers. “The stone is safe. I would know if it had been taken.”

Snape shook his head. “Not taken. Merely borrowed. When Hagrid retrieved the stone from Gringotts, Quirrell saw a window of opportunity to take the stone, create all the Elixir the Dark Lord needed to retain his power, and then return it. With none of us the wiser.”

“Why not simply keep the stone?” Professor Dumbledore asked. He looked deeply troubled.

“The Dark Lord has other means of immortality, once he returns to his body. Horcruxes,” Snape said. At Professor Dumbledore’s nod of understanding, he continued: “I suspect he did not trust Quirrell to avoid your detection long enough once the stone was in their possession. A powerful magical artefact like that would be a beacon screaming into the heavens. I believe he always intended to merely borrow it, but upon the amazing success of their initial scheme, he wanted more.”

“It also gave him a chance to enter Hogwarts and remain undetected for months,” Professor Dumbledore said thoughtfully. “A sincere advantage, if one knows how to use it.”

“Albus,” Snape said, his tone insistent. “The Dark Lord was sane. As sane as he was before that night. Perhaps more. He had more control over his emotion than I’ve ever seen.” There was something in Snape’s tone that Hermione couldn’t recognise, some undercurrent that Professor Dumbledore seemed to understand, but which was completely lost on her.

“Likely the effects of the Elixir, in combination with Quirrell’s unbroken soul. To create a horcrux… Such an act is extremely violent. The Elixir is, of course, a healing potion at its core. In large doses, it could certainly begin to smooth over the cracks left after the creation of the horcruxes. And of course, possessing Quirrell, or taking over Quirrell’s body, would provide an additional stabiliser. Do you know how many horcruxes he made?”

“Currently? Six,” Hermione said. “Although one was unintentional.”

Professor Dumbledore furrowed his brow for a moment, and then his eyes widened. “You mean Harry? Oh dear. One so young…”

“Any tips on removing it from him?” Hermione said scathingly. “Ideally without killing him?”

Professor Dumbledore gave her a considering look. “Has it been removed before?”

“Yes,” Hermione admitted. Snape looked at her sharply. “But… It just seemed like luck more than anything. He had the— he died. Again. But not really.”

Professor Dumbledore nodded. “You needn’t say more. Indeed, I am certain that the method Harry used is no longer available to him.”

Wasn’t that mysterious.

Snape cut in. “Albus, I spent months researching— destroying a horcrux without destroying the container is impossible.”

“That is likely true,” Professor Dumbledore allowed. “However… some new information has recently come to light that suggests it may still be possible to _remove_ the horcrux.”

“Really? How? What information?” Hermione demanded, her mind immediately buzzing. She’d done some arithmetical research into horcruxes after getting her mastery, of course she had, but merely as a curiosity.

But despite her and Snape’s arguing, Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t say anything else. He merely told them he needed to do more research, and would get back to them once he had more information. To avoid false hope, he said.

Hermione was beyond frustrated. She wanted this solved _now,_ damn it. Voldemort was out there hanging around with his stupid Elixir and whatever insane sanity he had, and they were sitting here—

Well, okay, they were sitting here discussing the non-Harry horcruxes, and their locations. Snape seemed a bit dazed by her simply unloading all this information to Professor Dumbledore in front of him, but she was tired of keeping secrets. And Professor Dumbledore clearly had some sort of personal stake in the matter, beyond just doing it for the good of the world, so who was she to keep information from him?

Especially when he agreed to talk Sirius into bringing her to Grimmauld Place so she could retrieve the locket.

Snape was almost passed out by the time their conversation came to a close. He was always pale, of course, but he’d lost what little colour he had entirely and was barely keeping his eyes open.

“Dear Severus,” Professor Dumbledore said. His hand twitched in the direction of Snape’s head before settling on the side of the bed. “You must conserve your energy.”

“Talking is conserving,” Snape managed to argue.

“I hardly think— oh.” Professor Dumbledore was staring at Snape’s arm, alarmed.

“What?” Hermione said, moving closer to the bed to get a better look. He had bandages on both arms, as they’d been burned quite badly, but his right arm had taken the brunt of it. Hermione couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, however. Just the grey ink of the dark mark peering through.

Professor Dumbledore started unwrapping the bandages covering the mark.

Snape hissed in pain, but then a horrified look came over his face.

Professor Dumbledore leaned back. “Do you know what this means, Severus?”

It took Hermione a moment to notice. The dark mark was a snake protruding from the mouth of a skull. But on Snape’s arm, the snake had been replaced with a grinning lizard.

The same kind that Voldemort had been possessing.

“It means,” Snape said grimly, “that the Dark Lord is not finished with me.”

* * *

Snape had wanted to come with her to Grimmauld Place, but Professor Dumbledore flatly refused. They were still trying to determine if Voldemort had left any nasty surprises in the modified dark mark. There was something there, Professor Dumbledore was sure, but the question was what. Voldemort couldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes with it, based on Snape’s story. That simply wasn’t long enough for a serious enchantment, no matter how powerful Voldemort was. Professor Dumbledore was sure that whatever magic Voldemort had cast would have had to be simple, but the fact that he couldn’t determine what it was terrified Hermione. He’d ruled out listening charms at least. That was something. She couldn’t imagine how terrible it would have been if Voldemort had heard them discussing horcruxes.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Sirius said sarcastically, opening the door with a grand flourish. Immediately a waft of dust blew into their faces, leaving them coughing helplessly. “Fuck,” Sirius rasped out. He kicked the doorframe angrily. “Stupid fucking house.”

“You weren’t kidding,” Hermione said, staring nervously into the dark. Of course she’d been here before, but that was only after the older members of the Order had gone through a done a thorough sweep and initial clean. Even back then it had been disgustingly filthy, but now it was downright terrifying. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Sirius said. “Honestly it’s not as bad as I expected. Hardly any dust at all!” he said, cleaning their robes with a lazy flick of his wand.

“If you say so,” Hermione said primly. “You can go first, then.”

Sirius laughed, a touch bitter but a laugh nonetheless. He stepped into the house. “Hmm,” he said, looking around. The portrait of his mother on the wall was shut, curtain pulled tightly over it. “That’s weird. Keep your voice down, okay? Follow me.”

Hermione stepped into the house after him. The door closed behind her, leaving them in near darkness for but a moment before the torches on the walls reluctantly flared to life.

“Come on, we’ll start in the library,” he whispered at her.

“Alright,” she replied, and did her best to avoid showing off her knowledge of the layout of the house. She followed behind Sirius, reluctantly impressed with Molly Weasley’s cleaning skills. She didn’t think she’d ever been in a dirtier, more disgusting place. In either timeline.

“Okay, we should be safe here,” Sirius said uncertainly, closing the door firmly behind them. “Or safer, at least. The books would’ve kept anything but the nastiest shit away.”

“The books?” Hermione said in surprise. “Why? Are there spells on them?”

Sirius shook his head. “Nah, nothing like that. Or, maybe. More like the books themselves are magic. I mean dark fucking magic. Stuff that would make the books in the restricted section shrivel up and— oh, sorry. That’s the restricted section of the Hogwarts library,” he explained. “Anyway, these things are fucking vile. Written in blood on human flesh, that sort of thing. And after a while, the evil just kind of… seeps into the rest of the room, you know? Fucking contaminates it. I’m not scared though,” he said, poking at one of the shelves. “My parents used to lock me in here all the time when I was a kid. Like they thought maybe they could force me to learn something.”

“Did you?” Hermione asked curiously.

“I learned I fucking hated my parents,” Sirius said bitterly. He glanced over at her, then looked away. “Sorry,” he said, jaw clenched. “I really hate being here.”

“Let’s not linger then,” Hermione said. “This is what we’re looking for.” She waved her wand, an imagine of the locket appearing slightly translucent in the air.

Sirius nodded tightly. “Of course they’d have something like that just lying around. Okay, in the interests of getting out of here as quickly as possible… Any house elves still skulking around, get your asses over here now!” he demanded.

There was a brief pause, and then Hermione saw the familiar face of Kreacher peaking out from behind one of the shelves.

“Useless Master is back,” Kreacher mumbled to himself. “The bad child, the traitor son. Mistress won’t be pleased, won’t be pleased… He comes back to what? To hurt Mistress more?”

“Okay, shut up immediately. You’re not talking anymore,” Sirius said. Right, Hermione had forgotten this part. Sirius had no sympathy for the house elf enslaved to his family. Poor Kreacher. “We’re looking for this locket. Find it and bring it.”

Kreacher’s eyes fell on the illusion and widened. He stared at Sirius with wide eyes and started shaking his head uncontrollably, scratching at his mouth desperately.

“What the fuck?” Sirius said, taking a step back. “Okay, okay! Talk!”

“Bad man! He came in here and took it!” Kreacher wailed. “He took Master Regulus’s locket! Kreacher tried to stop him but he took it, he took it…” Kreacher put his head in his hands and started weeping.

“Regulus’s locket?” Sirius asked, dumbfounded. He turned to Hermione.

“It was You-know-who’s,” Hermione whispered quietly to him. “Professor Dumbledore thinks Regulus stole it from him.” She couldn’t believe this. How could this possibly have happened? What could she have done to change the timeline enough for this? Or was it something Snape had done? Or Quirrell? Her mind was spinning.

“My brother? I thought he was the darkest of the dark,” Sirius said, face pained. He looked at Kreacher sobbing for a moment. “Elf, why did Regulus have this?”

“The Dark Lord,” Kreacher sobbed, the story spilling out of him at the slightest provocation. Apparently he was more willing to talk to a Black, even if it was Sirius. “Master Regulus made me go with him. Kreacher thought he would die! Die in the cave! He drank and drank and it burned and it burned, and then the Dark Lord left and I returned, and Master Regulus saved me! He sat with Kreacher, cared for Kreacher, and Kreacher took him back to the cave he did, he did, he didn’t want to go but Master Regulus insisted… Master Regulus made Kreacher drink again but he promised he promised he would take care of Kreacher. He brought Kreacher back. And he brought back the locket.”

“But what is it?” Sirius asked. He seemed stunned by these revelations.

“The Dark Lord’s power,” Kreacher said. “Gone, gone! Because Kreacher failed Master Regulus! Master Regulus tried to destroy it but he couldn’t! Kreacher tried, he tried he tried! But he couldn’t! And it sat, and sat, and then that man came, the filthy man and he stole and stole and stole! Filled his bag with priceless heirlooms and ran off into the night!”

“Er… Okay…” Sirius said. “That’s… not great.”

“No! Traitor son, traitor son must recover the Black legacies! He is the only one left! No one else, no one else! Kreacher cannot, Kreacher is too old, traitor son is the only one left!” Kreacher was grovelling by Sirius’s feet now.

“Oh Merlin,” Sirius said, trying to step away from where Kreacher was clutching at him. Every time he took a step he dragged Kreacher across the floor. “You’ve thrown a lot at me. I guess… tell me more about this man? The thief? And for Merlin’s sake, get a hold of yourself.”

Kreacher snivelled on the floor. “Yes, Master bad son, yes. Kreacher will tell you. The thief was a bad man, filthy and smelly. He came in July to steal and take.”

“How did he get through the wards?” Sirius asked curiously. “Was he a Black?”

Kreacher hesitated. “Not a Black, no,” he said slowly. “But the house… The house knew him. He cast his magic, an he walked in, just walked in the back door.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Sirius asked. Hermione elbowed him as Kreacher’s eyes grew wide and teary. “I mean— was he too powerful? Or…?”

Kreacher sniffed, a single solemn tear rolling down his face. “He was too strong,” Kreacher said morosely. “He knew some secret magics, magic Kreacher has never seen before, and Kreacher froze solid.”

“You mean he petrified you?” Sirius asked skeptically.

“No!” Kreacher vehemently protested. “No! Kreacher has been petrified before. House elves break petrification as easy as cooking. He used something else! Something evil!”

Sirius cast a meaningful glance around the library. “Evil. Right. And you’d never seen it before.”

Kreacher scowled up at him. “Bad Master is laughing at Kreacher,” he muttered under his breath. “But Kreacher will have last laugh when bad Master’s toenails fall off.”

Sirius immediately stepped backwards. “Stay away from my feet!” he said, alarmed. “Go back to grovelling, will you?”

Kreacher gnashed his teeth.

Hermione glanced over at Sirius before stepping in. “Okay, Kreacher, this is very good information, thank you. Could you please tell us what this thief looked like?”

Kreacher looked over Hermione. “Strange witch is speaking nice words to Kreacher,” he muttered. “But what does she want?”

“I want you to tell me what the thief looked like,” Hermione said in a flat tone.

“Thief had ginger hair, messy and greasy. Tattered clothes,” Kreacher sniffed judgementally. “Smelled like drink and smokes.” He made a small image appear above his hand. It was a little blurry, but still clear enough to make out the relevant details.

Sirius glanced over at Hermione. “Am I completely crazy, or does that look like—“

“We need to talk to Albus.”

* * *

“Ah, Ophelia,” Professor Dumbledore said, leaning back at his desk. He had a kind smile and a hard look in his eye. “I see you’ve returned empty handed.”

“Yes, the object was gone,” Hermione replied. She glanced over at Sirius, standing next to her and bristling with nervous energy. “It was stolen.”

“Stolen?” Professor Dumbledore said, straightening in his seat. “I take it that was unexpected.”

“Most certainly,” Hermione said primly.

“Look, Albus, I don’t see how this is possible,” Sirius said. “The wards on that house are rock solid. Right? And the house elf said that the thief used some sort of crazy dark magic on it or something, stuff he’d never seen before. And that’s a Black house elf saying that! What’s going on? What exactly is this thing? Kreacher said Regulus stole it! From Voldemort! Tell me everything.”

Professor Dumbledore steepled his hands in front of his face. “A most fascinating question, if I may say so, with an equally fascinating answer. How well versed are you in the history of goblin artefacts from the 17th century? Specifically, the numerous artefacts created during the goblin rebellion of 1792, which significantly turned the tide of the war and led to the founding of Gringotts as an institution?”

“Uh,” Sirius said. His eyes had glazed over. “Maybe just give me the highlights.”

Professor Dumbledore glanced over at Hermione and gave her a subtle wink. “If you insist. The artefact in question is one of the many keys to Voldemort’s power. If the artefact can be destroyed, then Voldemort will be that much weaker. Now, you say young Regulus stole it?”

“Yes, er—“ Sirius recounted the story he had learned from Kreacher. “But Albus, the image the house elf showed us of the thief…” He glanced over uncertainly at Hermione, who shrugged helplessly.

“Yes?” Professor Dumbledore said.

“The super powerful thief who got through the wards as if they didn’t exist and knew exactly which objects were the most valuable to steal…”

“Yes?” Professor Dumbledore prompted again, leaning it.

“Well… He looked a lot like Mundungus Fletcher.”

Professor Dumbledore blinked. He blinked again. And then he leaned back in his chair, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

Hermione covered her face with her hands. “We’re actually serious,” she said.

“No, I’m Sirius,” Sirius said automatically.

Professor Dumbledore laughed harder.

“Look, Professor, I think Dung might’ve… had some experience breaking into, um, dark houses.”

“What?” Sirius said. “When has Dung ever broken into anything more complicated than a pub?”

“When is a very good question,” Hermione said.

Professor Dumbledore brought himself under control. “Ah, yes. A very good question indeed. Sirius, do you still run in any of the same circles?”

“I’ve spent ten years in Azkaban, I don’t run in any circles,” Sirius said ruefully. “I can check some of his old hangouts, if you want. Maybe talk to some of his old fences?”

“That would be most appreciated. You and Remus both, if possible. The sooner we track down Mundungus, the better. Tread carefully, however. We don’t know what powers he now possesses.”

“Got it,” Sirius said. He was standing a little straighter now, a glint of determination in his eyes.

“Ophelia, are you available to stick around a little longer? I have some additional matters to discuss with you.”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione said. “Sirius, I’ll owl soon,” she promised.

He nodded. “Cheers,” he said, and gave Professor Dumbledore a nod before disappearing through the floo.

“Very well. What do you know of Mundungus?” Professor Dumbledore asked her.

“He stole a bunch of stuff from Grimmauld Place in my fifth year,” Hermione offered up immediately. “Including the locket, and random other valuables. He sold the locket to Dolores Umbridge, who pretended it was from her Selwyn heritage.” Hermione couldn’t contain her grimace. “Dung stayed in the Order until my seventh year, after you— um, after you were gone, and then he disappeared as soon as there was any real fighting. I never saw him again, but from what I heard he was still around and up to his old tricks when I died.”

“And was he particularly magically adept in your time?” Professor Dumbledore asked.

Hermione snorted. “Um, no. Not that I knew of at least. But sir, I was thinking— if he had access to the wards in my time, then could that have… I don’t know, lingered on him? And let him bypass the wards in this time?”

Professor Dumbledore gazed out the window for a moment. “It’s a curious idea,” he admitted. “Most wards are cast on the property, of course, and thus all magical signatures recognised by the ward would be stored in the ward itself, and not in the individual being recognised. I would need to examine the wards in question further to determine if they were different. It’s not impossible, of course.”

“I just can’t imagine Dung as someone powerful enough to break through the wards,” Hermione said, frustrated.

“Even forewarned about the exact nature of the wards themselves?”

Hermione deflated. “I guess it just seems crazy to me that he could break the wards after seeing them once… I mean, I couldn’t. But I guess maybe he did. Or maybe someone was disguised as him, or just happened to look like him, or any one of a billion options. But… if the evidence points end up there, then that’s where the evidence points. Not wanting it to be true isn’t going to change reality.” She stared glumly at the headmaster’s desk.

“Lemon drop?” Professor Dumbledore offered.

She sighed, and took one. It did make her feel a little better.

“Would it perhaps cheer you up to help me break the news to Severus that we may have another time traveler in our midsts?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

* * *

“I refuse to believe it,” Severus said flatly. He just couldn’t. He refused to live in a world where Mundungus Fletcher was anything more than a half-rate thug who made his living leeching off of the bottom rung of society.

“Well we’ll have to wait and see what Sirius finds,” Miss Granger said with a huff, folding her hands in her lap like the swot she was.

Severus scowled at her. “Have you even considered that it might not be Fletcher!? Perhaps you’ve jumped to a conclusion based on the word of an old, unreliable house-elf, and now you’ve firmly set in your mind that Fletcher is some sort of supervillain without any sort of rational consideration! Or perhaps it is Fletcher, but he’s been possessed as so many in these parts are want to be lately! Or maybe, just possibly, the house-elf _lied_ to you, as he’s lied to many people before, and made up the whole story.”

Granger had the gall to glance over at Albus, who looked back at her as if they shared some unspeakable secret between them. Severus wanted to tear his hair out. That was all they’d been doing lately, having their private conversations and then coming back and testing him for all manner of nefarious curses and plagues that the Dark Lord might have befallen upon him. He detested it, truly, with every aching and furious fibre of his being. Not simply the unknowing, but the knowing that they were talking about him, and he had no idea what they were saying. That he couldn’t know, because of some hidden danger that he was growing less convinced even existed. He wanted to be able to have a frank conversation with them, to expand on their discussion of time travel, to see what Albus thought of the whole endeavour and hear his theories. He wanted to start searching the castle for anything nefarious Quirrell might have left, search the forest, the scene of his torture for clues and catharsis.

He wanted to leave the bloody Hospital Wing.

“I believe Kreacher was telling the truth,” Hermione said. “He told the same story before, exactly the same. And we did destroy the locket last time. And Dung did steal it before. I just don’t… I don’t understand why this is happening again. I mean, did he travel as well? Or is this just a strange and bizarre coincidence. And the timing! The theft occurred in July.”

Severus groaned. “It’s almost impossible we could have caused this,” he said. “There just wasn’t enough time. And yet… Say Fletcher travels through time. If Quirrell traveled, then why not fucking Mundungus Fletcher? But that still doesn’t answer the question of how he broke into the Black ancestral house, and more importantly, why it was the first thing he did!”

“Well, for money,” Granger said. She looked embarrassed all of a sudden, as if it were gauche to have securing money be your top priority. “Because future knowledge can give you a lot of financial advantage, but only if you already have some money to start with. If Dung did travel, and he suddenly had this huge opportunity, wouldn’t he want to immediately get as much of an advantage as he could? And he already knew a house that was abandoned and full of valuables— valuables he already knew how to sell because he’d fenced them before!”

“That doesn’t explain how he was able to get into the house,” Severus pointed out. “The wards of this time should have only recognised the Black Heir. And he was of course still in Azkaban without a wand when the theft occurred.” Otherwise Severus would have already interrogated him at length.

Granger hesitated, but after a glance over at Albus she reluctantly continued. Severus didn’t see anything on Albus’ face that would indicate why, which sent chills down his spine. More secrets they were keeping from him? Were they going to push him out of this affair altogether? “It’s just…” she said. “We came back when we died, right? I think. You, me, and Professor Quirrell. Of the three of us, I lived the longest. But Dung was still alive when I died, as far as I know. I remember H— one of my friends complaining about him. Who knows how long he lived?”

“Are you suggesting that Fletcher lived long enough to became an expert ward breaker?” Severus asked in disbelief. Fletcher could barely spell his own shoes tied.

“I’m just saying we don’t know what happened!” Granger said defensively, throwing up her hands. “And anyway, do you have any better ideas?”

As a one, they both turned to look at Albus.

He stroked his beard, eyeing both of them. “We will need more information if we’re to make a proper deduction,” he said, the pinnacle of understatements. “But alas, Mundungus is not our priority at the moment.”

“He isn’t?” Severus said, at the same time as Granger cried “But the locket!”

Albus shook his head. “Sirius will track down the locket,” he said, diplomatically ignoring Severus’s snort of derision. “In the meantime, I believe there is another artefact you must find…?”

“The diary or the cup?” Granger asked.

“We can’t get the diary,” Severus said, heart sinking. “Now that the Dark Lord has returned, he’ll seek harbour with Lucius. Even if he doesn’t stay at Malfoy Manor, they will be in close contact. They will kill me if I set foot there.” There it was. He was useless.

Albus leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “Oh, I don’t believe they’d kill you,” he said. There was something curious in his gaze, so intent as he stared at Severus. “There are far worse things in this life than death.”

Granger interrupted the strange, charged moment. “So the cup?” Her voice was uncharacteristically small.

“Yes,” Albus said, tearing his gaze away from Severus and giving Granger a small smile. “You must break into Gringotts.”

“Again,” Granger huffed under her breath.

“I imagine this time will be a tad easier, given that you’ll have dear Severus to help you.”

“Oh no,” Severus groaned. “Nobody successfully steals from Gringotts,” he said, knowing it was useless. “We’re going to die.”

“We did it when we were seventeen,” Granger said, but even she could already see the flaws in her argument.

“Yes, and you did almost died, and everyone knew who it was! It’s no good stealing from Gringotts if we end up in Azkaban for life!”

“My dear boy,” Albus said, and Severus knew that was his cue to jump out the window. “Do you really think I would send you into such a situation without a plan?”

Albus told them the plan.

Severus hated the plan.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, the prime purpose of Gringotts is not a bank. Of course, Gringotts has tellers. It has vaults, where witches and wizards can store their money. It even offers currency exchange. But all that pales in comparison to its true purpose: to function as the Goblin embassy in Wizarding Britain.

Gringotts is the only piece of land on the surface of the Earth that belongs to the Goblin Nation. In real surface space, the Goblin Nation occupies 1000 square feet. In goblin space, the Goblin Nation is approximately the size of Scotland. The Goblin Nation extends deep underground, centred around a magically enlarged mine shaft. The mine shaft is miles deep, with tunnels branching out. However, goblins aren’t the only ones living below.

And the farther down you go, the more dangerous it gets.

But Hermione didn’t care about any of that. She was twelve again, with hair dyed black with muggle hair dye. She’d half-heartedly attempted to straighten it, and then gave up immediately, so she was wearing a hat.

Snape walked next to her, an adult, polyjuiced as a random muggle who looked vaguely enough like her. This part was important, as he was pretending to be her… father.

The line was shorter than usual, given that it was the middle of the day on a Friday, but Snape was still tapping his foot impatiently. The old lady at the front of the line was arguing with the teller about something. There was a pile of plants on the counter, still covered in dirt from the ground.

“I’m surprised you’re willing to miss so much class,” Snape said, finally bored enough to make conversation.

“Are you kidding me? I’m going to milk this Quirrell thing for everything I can. I’m honestly thinking of just dropping out.”

“You care that little about your own education?” he asked, surprised.

Hermione sighed, fussing with her hat to try and get it to sit properly. “I know, I know. I should care. And I do, sort of. It’s just… the more time I spend with Ophelia, the more I think… maybe I could just be her. All the time. And I hate eleven year olds so, so much.”

Snape made a noise of non-committal agreement. Well, she assumed that’s what that was. She had it on good authority that he did, in fact, also hate eleven year olds.

“Finally,” he muttered, as they approached the counter.

Hermione felt herself tense up unwillingly. And now it began.

The plan was, admittedly, very clever. It had the elegant simplicity that came out of a mind that excelled at strategy. Still, Hermione couldn’t help but chafe at the fact that she and Snape were here, risking their lives, and Professor Dumbledore was… probably in his office eating candy, without a care in the world.

Snape dropped his key onto the counter. Technically, it belonged to a colleague of Professor Dumbledore’s who’d passed away and left him a small collection of antiques. Gringotts didn’t care who you were, as long as you had a valid vault key. It was the wizard’s responsibility to keep his vault key safe, and if he didn’t, then his loss. The vault itself was vault 923, in the upper parts of the bank, but that didn’t matter. They only needed it to get in the door.

The goblin teller glanced at it, and then scanned the back of the room. “Bagnok will help you,” the teller said, gesturing vaguely at a grumpy looking goblin staring blankly at the wall.

Snape nodded curtly, and picked up the key. “Come along,” he said to her.

Hermione rolled her eyes but followed without comment.

Snape gave the key to Bagnok, who nodded when he saw it. “Follow me,” he said brusquely.

It was funny, Snape really fit in quite well with the goblins. They had the same manners.

Hermione followed Snape into a cart, and they set off at high speed.

Snape raised his wand. He was quick with wand work, Hermione had to admit. She barely even noticed, especially with the cart racing along.

The cart slowed down in front of vault 923.

“Are you daft?” Snape barked. “We’re going to 342!”

Bagnok had a dazed look on his face from the overpowered confoundus. “What?” he said, blinking.

“We’re going to vault 342,” Snape enunciated slowly, pouring a little more magic into it.

“Of course,” Bagnok mumbled, eyes glazed over. “One moment.”

The cart took off again, this time heading far deeper into the bank. They passed under the thief’s downfall, and Snape’s form reverted. The goblin was too dazed to notice. The thief’s downfall didn’t reach the lingering affects of the confoundus because at that point it was no longer active magic, merely brain chemistry.

“We have arrived,” Bagnok said, clambering out of the cart. Hermione gazed up at the familiar vault door, a chill going down her spine. Gringotts had fabulous security, this was true. But the security didn’t stop people from getting in. Gringotts was built like a mouse trap— luring in thieves, and then once they were inside, trapping them until they starved to death.

“Open the door,” Snape commanded, and layered another burst of magic on the goblin.

Bagnok placed his palm on the door, and slowly, it swung open.

“Stupefy,” Snape said, and the goblin fell to the floor. “Obliviate.”

While Snape was removing the goblin’s memory, Hermione peered inside the vault. It looked almost exactly as she remembered. Gold glistened, ancient artefacts shone in the magical candle light. And at the back, on a tall shelf, sat the cup.

She stared at it, eyes frozen on the sight. The fear she’d felt the last time pressed down on her. But they would be safer this time. Professor Dumbledore had crafted the plan himself. They had every advantage.

“Done,” Snape said, glancing over at her. “Are you prepared?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Hermione said. “And anyway, does it matter?”

Snape nodded, and raised his wand. Fire burst out, a thin stream at first that slow coalesced into a dragon, spinning and turning and darting through the air, straight into the vault and at the cup.

The cup caught immediately, as did many other things in the vault. Hermione didn’t care. They weren’t here for treasure, they were only here to destroy a horcrux. Still, watching all that gold melt was painful. This was the crux of their plan. As long as they didn’t enter the vault, their presence would not be recorded. As long as they took nothing out, they would be able to leave Gringotts’s wards unharmed. After all, if they weren’t stealing anything, then they weren’t thieves.

The horcrux slowly twisted and melted as the dragon danced around it. At first, Snape looked perfectly at peace, but then a shadow came over his face. Hermione wondered what it felt like to control such powerful magic, and to use it to destroy something so dark. Did the horcrux talk to him? Did it prey on his fears, his weaknesses?

Hermione glanced at the mine shaft in the centre of the tunnel. Vaults and platforms lined the walls, with twisty circular cart tracks dancing around through this shaft and into the smaller, newer mine shafts that they’d passed through originally. This shaft was the original, and Hermione knew it was the one that went all the way down to the tunnels that made up the Goblin Nation and beyond. It was miles deep, and pitch black.

The fire dragon was just finishing up destroying the horcrux when the alarms went off.

Immediately, Hermione pressed her hands to her ears. “I thought we’d have longer!” she shouted desperately at Snape, hoping she would be heard over the alarms.

“It doesn’t matter!” he said, and kicked the vault door closed. “We’re done here!” The door closed easier than it opened, latching shut almost immediately.

Hermione could hear the roar of a dragon in the distance, the sounds of goblin guards thundering towards them, audible even over the alarms screaming. They were coming from above, so much faster than she’d imagined, blocking off the exit to the surface.

That was the thing about Gringotts. It was almost trivially easy to get into. And almost impossible to break out of.

The alarms were pressing in on Hermione’s ear drums, the noise painfully loud. She glanced around desperately, locking eyes with Snape, whose eyes were wide with panic. “It’s time!” he shouted at her. They ran to the edge of the platform, looking up into the bank.

It was too late. The dragon was descending.

Hermione looked down into the mine shaft, down into an unknowable blackness. She reached out blindly, grabbing Severus’s hand in her own. She felt his grip tighten around her fingers.

Their gaze locked, for just a moment, and he nodded at her. Together, they jumped.

And fell into the darkness.

* * *

Lord Voldemort made himself at home in Lucius Malfoy’s former office. Former, of course, because Voldemort had quickly taken it over as soon as he’d settled into Malfoy Manor.

Lucius hadn’t been happy about it, although he’d simpered and prostrated himself without hesitation.

But one couldn’t hide their feelings from Lord Voldemort. And Voldemort had looked into his eyes, and seen his displeasure at his Master’s return.

Lucius Malfoy had built a comfy life. A wife, a child, the ear of the Minister of Magic himself. And Lucius knew that he was risking it all by letting the Dark Lord into his home. But what choice did he have?

None. He had none.

Lord Voldemort leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. “Elf,” he said, and a house elf in ragged clothing popped into the room. The house elf quaked in fear, pulling at its ridiculous floppy ears. “Fetch tea,” he ordered the enslaved creature. It was amusing to him that for all of the wizarding world’s superiority over muggles, they still practiced slavery. And yet so many wizards and witches had risen against him. Surely a house elf was superior to a useless, magic-less muggle.

“Yes, Master, Dobby will do so right away,” the creature said and disappeared.

The tea appeared on the desk, sans elf.

Lord Voldemort didn’t care about house elves. He also didn’t care about the chocolate biscuits the elf had included on a small plate, but he ate them anyway.

The Dark Lord sat in his chair, eating biscuits and idly tapping the cover of his schoolboy diary. Truthfully, he had no idea what to do with it. Although he did enjoy the numerous benefits horcruxes offered him, resurrection being only one, truthfully, he missed having a full soul. He hadn’t realised what he’d been missing until he’d absorbed Quirrell’s soul into his own and felt the Elixir of Life smooth over the rough, jagged edges. But Quirrell’s soul held a mere fraction of the magical power he’d once called his own. A power he could begin to access again… if he absorbed the horcrux back into his main soul.

He could only imagine how painful that would be.

Lord Voldemort sat up suddenly, dropping a half-eaten biscuit back on the plate. His lips curled into an amused smirk. “Fiendfyre, Severus?” he said to himself. “How interesting. First an obliviate, and now this. Are you perhaps… doing some dangerous?” He felt the thrum, the warmth of the link to Severus’s magic that he’d left inside the young man’s dark mark. “Oh dear, how terrible it would be if… Yes. I think he has earned it.”

And with a twist of his willpower, Lord Voldemort sealed Severus’s magic inside Severus’s body. Severus would be powerless, left to deal with whatever danger he faced with only his wits. He broadened the connection, and felt Severus’s fear seep into him.

Lord Voldemort’s smile widened. “Well, Severus,” he said to the empty room. “Here is your chance. Entertain me.”


End file.
